Chapter 2 - The Missing HoursI couldn't remember the attack clearly.
I remembered the monitor.
Dylan's face.
The words.
Then nothing.
The doctors called it post-traumatic amnesia.
They said memories might return gradually.
Some would return suddenly.
Some might never return at all.
The thing nobody warned me about was how terrifying it was to discover gaps in your own life.
I knew my name.
I knew my job.
I knew my parents.
I knew Dylan.
But there were moments that felt like pages had been ripped from a book.
The police arrived the following morning.
Detective Lena Ortiz sat beside my hospital bed with a notebook.
“Mr. Carter, I need you to tell me what you remember.”
I tried.
“I was working late.”
“What time?”
“I don't know.”
“Do you remember seeing your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
I closed my eyes.
“If I can’t have your job…”
I stopped.
The rest came back in pieces.
“You won’t have a brain.”
Ortiz looked up sharply.
“That's exactly what he said?”
“Yes.”
She wrote it down.
“Did you report previous threats?”
I frowned.
“I don't know.”
That answer scared me.
She noticed.
“It's okay.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“It isn't.”
Three days later, my father arrived.
He brought flowers.
He didn't ask how I felt.
He didn't ask if I was in pain.
He stood at the foot of my bed and said, “Dylan is devastated.”
I stared at him.
“I'm the one in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“He attacked me.”
“He lost control.”
“He tried to kill me.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“You need to be careful with accusations.”
I almost laughed.
“Accusations?”
“You don't remember everything.”
The room went silent.
He knew.
He knew exactly what the doctors had told me.
“You're right,” I whispered.
“I don't remember everything.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
Then I saw it.
A flash of relief.
Not concern.
Relief.
My father left fifteen minutes later.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
You don't remember the last five minutes. That's why you're dangerous.
I stared at it.
Another message arrived.
Don't trust your father.
Then another.
Ask what happened at 10:43 p.m.
My heart began racing.
I checked the timestamp of the attack.
The security report said 10:49 p.m.
Why 10:43?
I called Detective Ortiz.
She arrived the next morning.
When I showed her the messages, her expression changed.
“We need to know who sent these.”
“Can you trace it?”
“We'll try.”
Then she asked, “Did your father mention your office?”
“No.”
“Did he mention Dylan?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That Dylan lost control.”
Ortiz stared at me.
“That's interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because Dylan told us he wasn't at the office that night.”
I felt cold.
“He wasn't?”
“No.”
“He attacked me.”
“We know.”
“Then why would he tell you he wasn't there?”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“He didn't tell us that.”
I frowned.
“Then who did?”
She slowly closed her notebook.
“The first person who called emergency services.”
“Who?”
She looked me directly in the eyes.
“Victor Carter.”
My father had called the ambulance.
My father had access to the security system.
And my father had somehow known enough about the attack to tell police a story that contradicted what I remembered.
That afternoon, Rachel Morgan visited me.
She looked furious.
“I need to tell you something before your father gets here.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“The promotion wasn't supposed to go to you.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
She closed the door.
“Dylan had lobbied the board for months.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Rachel shook her head.
“You don't understand.”
She placed a folder on my bed.
“Dylan wasn't trying to convince them he deserved your job.”
She opened it.
“He was trying to convince them you were never qualified for it.”
Inside were printed emails.
Anonymous complaints.
Claims of misconduct.
Claims that I had stolen company ideas.
Claims that I had manipulated financial reports.
All false.
But professionally devastating.
I looked at the dates.
Most had been sent weeks before my promotion.
One was sent three days before the attack.
I looked at Rachel.
“Who sent them?”
She hesitated.
“We traced the first batch.”
My pulse quickened.
“To Dylan?”
Rachel shook her head.
“To your father's private consulting company.”
I stopped breathing.
Then Rachel said something even worse.
“There was one more complaint.”
“What did it say?”
She looked at the final page.
“It said you had plans to expose an internal fraud scheme.”
I stared at her.
“I don't know anything about a fraud scheme.”
Rachel's face went pale.
“That's the problem.”
She pointed at the date.
May you like
The complaint had been filed at 10:43 p.m.
Six minutes before Dylan attacked me.
