Detective Finch had the kind of face that remembered everything—sharp angles and skeptical eyes that catalogued details like a camera. She sat across from Mara at the kitchen table, notepad open, pen poised. The uniformed officer, Deputy Walsh, stood by the window watching Daniel pace the back deck.
"Beautiful home," Finch said, her gaze sweeping the kitchen. "How long have you lived here?"
"Two years." Mara kept her hands flat on the table, fighting the urge to touch the photographs burning in her jacket pocket. "We bought it after our wedding."
"Romantic. Coastal living." Finch's smile was professional, empty. "Must be peaceful. Except for recent events."
The words hung between them like smoke. Mara nodded, not trusting her voice.
"I'm investigating Clara Nguyen's death. Young woman, jogging alone." Finch flipped through her notes. "Found Tuesday night at Dogleg Curve. You familiar with that area?"
"Everyone here knows Dogleg Curve." True enough. "It's dangerous. People shouldn't jog there after dark."
"Victim blaming?" Finch's pen stilled. "Interesting perspective."
Heat flooded Mara's cheeks. "That's not what I meant. I just—it's common sense. That trail's been deadly for years."
"Have you been there recently?"
The question landed like a punch. Mara's memory scrambled, grasping for Tuesday night. The overlook. Daniel's profile against the sunset. The drive home. But between those moments, something moved in the shadows—a gap she couldn't quite bridge.
"We were at the overlook Tuesday," she said carefully. "Taking photos."
"What time?"
"Early evening. Six-thirty, maybe seven."
Finch made a note. "And after?"
"Home. Dinner. Bed." The lies came easily, which terrified her. "Daniel had an early client Wednesday."
"Actually, I'd like to speak with your husband about that." Finch stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "Mr. Kessler?"
Through the window, Daniel stopped pacing. His face was pale, distracted. He looked like a man who'd lost something important and couldn't remember what.
"Of course." Mara rose too quickly, knocking over her coffee mug. Brown liquid spread across the table in a stain that looked disturbingly like blood. "I'll get him."
"That's fine. Deputy Walsh will bring him in."
The words carried weight—official weight. Mara watched through the glass as Walsh approached Daniel, saw her husband's shoulders tense. This wasn't a casual conversation anymore.
"Is he in trouble?" she asked.
"Should he be?" Finch's tone was mild, but her eyes were granite. "Mrs. Kessler, your husband was Clara's therapist. Did you know that?"
The kitchen tilted. Mara gripped the counter, fighting a wave of nausea. "That's impossible. He would have told me."
"Patient confidentiality. Even from wives." Finch watched Mara's face carefully. "She'd been seeing him for three months. Stopped coming two weeks ago."
"Why?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
Daniel entered the kitchen flanked by Deputy Walsh. He looked smaller somehow, diminished by the uniform beside him. His eyes found Mara's immediately, a silent question passing between them.
"Mr. Kessler." Finch's voice carried new authority. "I understand Clara Nguyen was your patient."
Daniel's face went blank. "I'm sorry, who?"
"Clara Nguyen. Twenty-four years old. Anxiety and depression. You saw her Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Wellness Center."
"I don't—" Daniel shook his head slowly. "I don't remember treating anyone by that name."
The silence stretched taut. Mara could hear her heartbeat, Walsh's breathing, the distant crash of waves against rocks. Everything except the truth.
"Memory issues?" Finch asked.
"Sometimes. After the accident." Daniel's voice was barely above a whisper. "I took a leave of absence. My recall isn't what it was."
"What accident?"
"Car crash. Six months ago." Daniel touched his temple, where a faint scar bisected his hairline. "Concussion. Some gaps in my memory."
Finch made another note. "Yet you were cleared to treat patients?"
"I was getting better. Am getting better." Daniel's hands shook slightly. "I wouldn't have hurt anyone."
"No one said you did." But Finch's tone suggested otherwise. "Where were you Tuesday night between eight and ten PM?"
"With me," Mara said quickly. "At home. I can show you the photos I took earlier that evening."
"I'd like to see those."
Mara's stomach plummeted. The photographs in her pocket suddenly felt radioactive. "They're still developing. In my darkroom."
"When will they be ready?"
"Soon. I'll call you."
Finch handed her a card. "Please do. And Mr. Kessler? If your memory improves, I'd appreciate a call."
After they left, Mara and Daniel stood in the kitchen wreckage—spilled coffee, scattered papers, the lingering scent of suspicion. The fog outside pressed against the windows like curious fingers.
"I don't remember her," Daniel said finally. "Clara. I should remember my own patient."
"The accident—"
"The accident was six months ago. If I was treating her three months ago, I should remember." He turned to face her, and she saw something that terrified her more than his sleepwalking, more than the journal, more than the photographs hidden in her pocket.
He was afraid of himself.
"What if I did something terrible?" he whispered. "What if I hurt her and just don't remember?"
"You didn't."
"How can you be sure?"
Because I was there. The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. Because I have proof you were standing over her body. Because I took the fucking picture.
"Because I know you," she said instead.
Daniel nodded, but his eyes held doubt. "I need to lie down. This headache—"
"Go. Rest. I'll clean up."
He kissed her forehead, a gesture so normal it felt obscene. After he left, Mara stood alone in the kitchen, Detective Finch's card in one hand, her husband's future in the other.
She walked to the fireplace and struck a match.
The photographs caught quickly—Daniel at the overlook, Daniel at the cliffs, Daniel standing over Clara's body. The flames consumed the evidence, curling the edges until her husband's face blackened and dissolved. But the images remained burned into her memory, indelible as scars.
She was destroying evidence. Obstructing justice. Protecting a man who might be a killer.
The fire crackled, hungry for more secrets.
Outside, fog swirled around the house like a living thing, and somewhere in that gray void, Detective Finch's car disappeared into the distance. But Mara knew she'd be back. With more questions. Better questions.
Questions Mara couldn't answer by burning photographs.
She needed to find out what Daniel had forgotten. And more importantly, what she had forgotten too.
The ashes fell like snow into the grate, and upstairs, Daniel's footsteps crossed the bedroom floor. Once. Twice. Then silence.
But in that silence, Mara heard something that made her blood freeze—the soft scrape of a drawer being opened. The same drawer where she'd found the journal.
The same drawer she'd checked this morning.
The same drawer that had been empty.