Evelyn Cross learned to fear clocks long before she understood why.
The one above the pharmacy door chimed twice as she pushed it open, its brass hands insisting it was 6:40 p.m. She remembered checking her watch only moments ago—5:55. Forty-five minutes had gone missing, cleanly and without apology, like a page torn from a book she was still reading.
"Ma'am?" the cashier said, leaning forward. "You okay there?"
Evelyn realized she was gripping the counter hard enough to blanch her knuckles. She loosened her fingers slowly, embarrassed by the way her pulse skidded when the clock chimed again.
"Yes," she said too quickly. "Just—long day."
The cashier smiled with practiced kindness. "You left your bag here earlier. Thought you might come back."
Earlier.
Evelyn's stomach tightened. "I… did?"
The woman nodded and reached under the counter, pulling out a canvas tote Evelyn recognized instantly—same frayed seam, same ink stain on the handle. Her handwriting curled along the side in permanent marker: E. Cross.
"I was here?" Evelyn asked, forcing a small laugh. "Sorry, I've been a little distracted lately."
"No worries," the cashier said. "You seemed in a hurry. Said you'd be back in ten minutes."
Evelyn took the bag with trembling hands. Ten minutes that had stretched into nearly an hour. Ten minutes she couldn't remember living.
Outside, Black Harbor exhaled fog. It rolled between buildings like a living thing, swallowing streetlights and muting the ocean's constant warning roar.
Evelyn stood on the sidewalk, heart beating too loudly in her ears, and tried to reconstruct herself.
You walked here, she told herself. You bought your medication. You spoke to someone.
She opened the bag.
Inside were her prescription bottles—and a folded note, creased as if it had been opened and closed several times.
Her breath caught.
She didn't need to unfold it to know the handwriting was hers.
You lost time again, the note read. Don't panic. I handled it.
Evelyn staggered back against the brick wall of the pharmacy.
"I didn't write this," she whispered.
The fog offered no response.
Her apartment was on the third floor of a building that smelled faintly of mildew and old paint. The hallway lights flickered as she climbed the stairs, each step echoing too loudly, as if the building itself was listening.
Inside, everything looked normal. Too normal.
Her shoes were lined up by the door.
The sink was clean.
The couch cushions were arranged neatly—something she never bothered to do. Evelyn dropped her bag and stood still, afraid that movement would break whatever fragile illusion was holding the world together.
"Hello?" she called, hating the way her voice shook.
No answer.
She went to the bathroom to splash water on her face and froze.
A fresh bandage wrapped her left forearm, tight and expertly done. A faint rust-colored stain had seeped through the gauze.
"Oh my God," she breathed.
She peeled it back carefully. Beneath, a thin cut traced her skin—precise, deliberate. Not an accident.
"I didn't do this," she said aloud.
Her reflection stared back at her, pale and wide-eyed.
For a moment—just a moment—Evelyn thought it smiled.
She slammed the cabinet shut and stumbled into the living room, chest tight, thoughts colliding. Someone had been here.
Someone had hurt her. Someone was writing her notes.
And that someone was her.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
UNKNOWN CALLER
She hesitated before answering. "Hello?"
"Evelyn," said a man's voice, low and controlled.
"This is Detective Marcus Hale, Black Harbor PD."
Her knees buckled and she sank onto the couch. "Why are you calling me?"
There was a pause. She could hear traffic on his end, a distant siren.
"We need to ask you a few questions about your uncle, Thomas Calder."
The name landed like a dropped plate, shattering something deep inside her.
"What about him?" she asked.
"He was found dead this morning."
Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
"How?" Evelyn finally whispered.
"Single blunt-force wound to the back of the head. No sign of forced entry."
Evelyn's stomach turned. Images flickered at the edges of her mind—hands, a shadowed room, the sound of something heavy meeting bone. She pressed her palms to her temples.
"I didn't see him," she said quickly. "I haven't talked to him in weeks."
"We know," Hale replied. "Your phone places you across town at the time of death."
Relief washed through her—followed immediately by terror.
Because she didn't remember where she'd been.
"Detective," she said, her voice barely holding together, "I think something's wrong with me."
Another pause, longer this time.
"We can talk about that," Hale said gently.
"Tomorrow. In person."
After the call ended, Evelyn sat motionless, the city humming beyond her walls.
Her phone buzzed again.
A draft message glowed on the screen. No recipient.
No timestamp.
"He deserved it."
Her breath hitched.
"You're safe now."
Evelyn dropped the phone as if it had burned her.
Somewhere deep inside her mind, a door closed softly.
And a voice—calm, certain, and not her own—whispered:
"I did this for you."