Daniel emerged from the basement workshop carrying something wrapped in brown paper, his fingertips stained with wood glue and ink. The scent of cedar shavings clung to his clothes like guilt.
"Close your eyes," he said, settling beside Mara on the couch where she'd been pretending to read the same page for twenty minutes.
"It's not our anniversary for another three weeks."
"I know." His voice carried that soft uncertainty she'd learned to recognize—the tone that preceded his worst lapses. "I just... I needed to make something. For you."
She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his offering settle into her lap. The paper crinkled as he unwrapped it, and she caught the smell of fresh leather mixed with something chemical. Developer fluid, maybe. Or blood.
"Open them."
The photo album was beautiful—hand-bound in burgundy leather with brass corner guards. Her initials were embossed on the cover in gold script: M.L.K. Mara Lynn Kessler. The sight of her married name still startled her sometimes, like seeing a stranger's face in the mirror.
"Daniel, this is gorgeous." She ran her fingers over the tooled leather binding. "When did you have time to—"
"I've been working on it for months. In the evenings, after you fall asleep." He watched her face intently. "I wanted to surprise you."
She opened the cover. The first page held their wedding photo—Daniel's arm around her waist, both of them squinting into Oregon sunlight. They looked young. Hopeful. Naive enough to believe in happy endings.
"Turn the page," he urged.
The second page showed them at the overlook, Mara's camera capturing the sunset while Daniel captured her. The third contained shots from their honeymoon—Daniel feeding seagulls, Mara asleep in a beach chair, their intertwined hands against white sand.
Each page told a story. Their story. Two years of careful documentation, moments preserved in silver halide and memory. But as she turned through the album, something felt wrong. The chronology was off. Gaps appeared where memories should have been.
"This one's my favorite," Daniel said, leaning closer. His breath was warm against her neck, but she felt cold.
The photograph showed her in the darkroom, red light painting her face like blood. She was developing film, but the expression on her face was strange—predatory, almost. Hungry. She didn't remember him taking this picture.
"When did you—"
"Last week. You were so focused, so beautiful. I couldn't resist."
She stared at the image. In the background, barely visible in the red glow, contact sheets hung from the line. Even with the poor lighting, she could make out shapes on the negatives. Human shapes. At the cliffs.
"Keep going," Daniel whispered.
The next few pages were blank except for small annotations in his careful handwriting. Future photos, he'd written. Memories to be made. But one annotation made her blood stop.
On an otherwise empty page, in Daniel's unmistakable script, was written a single name: Clara.
"What's this?" Her voice came out strangled.
Daniel leaned over, studying the page with genuine confusion. "I don't know. I don't remember writing that."
"Clara. You wrote Clara."
"Did I?" He frowned, touching the ink with his fingertip. "That's... odd. I don't know anyone named Clara."
The lie hit her like a physical blow. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe he really didn't remember treating Clara Nguyen. Maybe he didn't remember killing her either.
"Daniel, yesterday Detective Finch said—"
"I know what she said." His voice hardened. "But I don't remember treating anyone by that name. I would remember my own patients."
"Then why did you write it?"
"I don't know!" The words exploded from him, sharp enough to cut. He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "I've been having these... episodes. Gaps. I'll be doing something perfectly normal, and then I'll come to hours later with no memory of what happened. Yesterday I found soil under my fingernails and couldn't remember gardening. This morning there was salt water in my hair, but I never went to the beach."
Mara's hands trembled as she closed the album. "Have you been sleepwalking again?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." He pressed his forehead against the glass. "What if I'm losing my mind? What if I did something terrible and just blocked it out?"
"You didn't—"
"How can you be sure?" He turned to face her, and she saw the fear naked in his eyes. "How can anyone be sure of anything when they can't trust their own memory?"
The question hung in the air between them like smoke. Mara clutched the album against her chest, feeling the weight of secrets pressing down on her lungs. She could tell him about the journal. About the photographs she'd burned. About the evidence mounting against him like storm clouds.
But she couldn't tell him about the voice on the phone three weeks ago. The voice that had whispered, "He's remembering. You need to help him forget again."
Her own voice.
"I should return this," Daniel said suddenly. "The album. I shouldn't have... I'm not well enough to be making gifts. Making promises."
"No." The word came out harder than she intended. "It's beautiful. It's perfect."
He studied her face, searching for something. Truth, maybe. Or absolution.
"I love you," he said quietly. "Whatever's happening to me, whatever I might have done, I need you to know that. I love you more than I've ever loved anything."
"I know." She stood, crossing to him. "I love you too."
He kissed her then, desperate and hungry, and she tasted salt on his lips. Sea salt. Fear. The metallic tang of blood.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If I become dangerous—if I hurt someone—you'll turn me in. You won't protect me."
The request was a blade between her ribs. "Daniel—"
"Promise me."
"I promise," she lied.
He nodded, satisfied, and headed for the stairs. "I'm going to lie down. This headache is getting worse."
She watched him climb the steps, noting how his left foot dragged slightly. The same limp he'd developed after the accident. The same accident that had conveniently erased his memory of treating Clara Nguyen.
The same accident that had happened three days after Mara had made her first anonymous call to the clinic.
Footsteps crossed the ceiling above her head—Daniel's bedroom routine. Brush teeth. Change clothes. Check locks. The sounds were familiar, comforting in their predictability.
Then the footsteps stopped.
Mara held her breath, counting seconds. One. Two. Three.
The footsteps resumed, but they were different now. Heavier. Moving toward the attic access.
She'd never known Daniel to go into the attic. He claimed it was just storage, boxes of junk from his childhood. But now she heard the creak of the pull-down ladder, the groan of old wood under weight.
More footsteps. Directly above her head.
Mara clutched the photo album tighter, her heart hammering against her ribs. Whatever Daniel was looking for up there, she had a terrible feeling he was about to find it.