Chapter 15
Billa
The room smells faintly of coffee and dust, like a church basement pressed into service for a hundred purposes. Folding chairs line the walls in an uneven circle, and the fluorescent lights buzz just enough to set my nerves on edge.
Florencia squeezes my shoulder as we step inside. “You don’t have to say anything,” she whispers. “Just listen, that’s all.”
I nod, clutching my bag too tight. The one-eyed bear drawing is folded inside, burning against my palm like a secret I’m not ready to face.
There are maybe a dozen people here. Some look young, and others old enough to be my grandparents. Each face holds the same shadow—something missing behind their eyes, something stolen.
Florencia and I sit, managing to get chairs next to each other. She sits elegantly, with the poise of someone who doesn’t question herself. I tap my foot nervously, unable to stop it.
A man in his forties with a trim salt-and-pepper beard clears his throat. “We’ll start the way we always do. Names optional. Stories as much or as little as you want. We’re here because nobody else listens.”
One by one, the circle begins. Memories half-remembered. Dreams that feel too real. A woman describing a staircase that led nowhere, a boy who spoke in riddles before he disappeared. A middle-aged man whose arms twitch like he’s still strapped down.
When it comes to me, I shake my head. My foot taps seemingly out of control. I can’t talk, not yet. But I listen to every word, every fragment.
A younger woman with platinum curls leans forward. Her hands twist in her lap. “They always said we were performing. That’s how they called it. The performances. But what I remember most isn’t the stage.” She lowers her voice. “It’s the white spool.”
The room goes still for a moment, like the phrase has weight. But then the conversation drifts on, folding around it, burying it.
I shiver, not knowing why.
Florencia tilts her head as if she’s memorizing every word. She probably is.
I glance at the woman again. Her eyes are far away, but her voice carries steadily. “The spool was what they passed to the next one, like a baton in a race. If you got it, it was your turn to do the hurting. Your turn to be watched. I prayed I’d never see it again.”
My fingers tighten around the folded paper in my bag. A bear missing an eye. A word I don’t understand. White spool. But it sparks something in me. I just can’t figure out what. Or why.
Across the circle, another survivor nods knowingly.
I tell myself it’s just another memory fragment. Just another broken piece of someone else’s story. Perhaps something I saw at work.
What would these people think of me if they knew I’m working there now? I won’t tell them, though they could find out. If any of them ever go back. But they wouldn’t, would they? Not after so much trauma.
They might think I’m a plant sent to spy from Dr. Radley himself.
I’ll explain the truth. They’ll understand. We’ll all do whatever it takes to find the answers.
Even return. Or maybe I’m the only one brave enough. Or foolish enough.
The woman is still speaking. She says that phrase again. White spool.
In my gut, something twists like a knife. As if I’ve just heard a phrase that matters more than I’ll ever know.
A woman close to my age across the circle lets out a bitter laugh. “You talk about praying you’d never see it again? I prayed Laurel would never call on me. But she always did.”
The room stiffens at the name.
I sit straighter. “Laurel? You mean Dr. Radley’s granddaughter?”
The woman shakes her head. “Don’t let the last name fool you. She was more than just a puppet. That crazy crow liked seeing us squirm.”
A man in his fifties with thinning hair and a silver goatee clears his throat.
His voice trembles, but his words don’t.
“Liked it, maybe. But remember who was pulling her strings. Dr. Radley’s children and grandchildren were raised in it, groomed.
They were the faces they let us see—not the hand behind the curtain. Her uncle is the one who tortured me.”
Florencia leans toward me, whispering so low I barely hear. “Exactly what I was telling you. She’s in prison, taking the fall, but she’s just a fragment of what they built. It goes much deeper.”
I shift uneasily in my chair and speak to the group. “Then who’s responsible?”
No one answers. Their silence is heavier than words.
Finally, the platinum-haired woman speaks again. “It doesn’t matter if Laurel liked it or not. She carried the spool. She passed it along.” Her gaze drifts to her lap. “And when she smiled, it wasn’t acting.”
A murmur ripples through the group, some nodding and others shaking their heads.
My pulse hammers. I thought I wanted answers, but every word is another weight pressing me down.
Florencia clears her throat. “If Laurel wasn’t the mastermind, then who was? Do you know names? Roles? Anything?”
The man who first spoke leans back, eyes narrowing. “Careful. The more you dig, the more you attract attention.” His gaze sweeps the room, sharp. “We’ve all seen what happens when you remember too much.”
Florencia bristles. “But people deserve to know. I want answers, and I’m losing patience.”
He doesn’t respond, but the warning hangs in the air.
I grip my bag tighter, the edges of the folded drawing biting into my palm. My throat is dry, but I manage to speak. “What happens when you remember?”
The woman with the platinum curls meets my eyes at last, her voice rasp. “They send someone to silence you. Sometimes it’s someone you trust. Other times it’s someone who doesn’t even know they’ve been programmed.”
My skin prickles, and I freeze. “Programmed?”
Florencia inhales sharply beside me, like she recognizes the weight of those words.
I can’t shake the feeling that, whatever “white spool” is, it isn’t just memory. It’s a warning. A code. And I’m standing in the middle of it, blind.
Like Kenzi and the word milkshake, though I can’t bring myself to speak it aloud.
The group splinters, voices dropping into private conversations, chairs scraping against the floor. Florencia pulls out her notebook, scribbling furiously, but my hands stay clenched around my bag.
I’m about to stand when the platinum-haired woman—the one who spoke of the spool—crosses the room and lowers herself into the other chair beside me. Her eyes, distant but steady, fix on mine. “You’ve been there.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t… remember much.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “That’s how it works. They make sure you don’t, but I see it in your face. I’ve seen it before.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you ever see the spool again, don’t touch it. Don’t let them hand it to you, no matter what happens.”
My fingers tighten around the folded drawing in my bag. “Why?”
“Because if you take it,” she says, “you’ll do their work for them. Whether you want to or not.”
A shiver runs through me. What if I’ve already taken it? I want to ask more, but she pats my hand gently, like she’s already said too much. Then she pushes to her feet and disappears into the shuffle of people leaving.
Florencia reappears at my side, clutching her notes, her eyes alight with fierce determination. “We’re coming back. Whatever they’re hiding, whatever they’re afraid to say aloud, it’s buried in there. I can feel it.”
But her voice is far away, because all I can hear is the woman’s whisper. Don’t touch it. Don’t let them hand it to you.
And the echo of something I don’t fully remember but know in my bones. The weight of an object passed from hand to hand, heavier than its size, impossible to refuse.
I’m not sure going to this meeting helped at all. Now I have even more questions and fewer answers.
But I won’t give up.