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"My adoptive mom."

"Rebecca?"

He nods.

"She used to make me promise something."

"What promise?"

His expression clouds.

"If I ever started remembering..."

He swallows.

"...I wasn't supposed to tell anyone."

The room goes still.

"What exactly did she say?" I ask.

"'Some memories aren't yours.'"

A chill crawls across my shoulders. Carys writes the sentence down immediately. I don't stop her. Because something about those words feels important. Not just as evidence. As a warning.

I lean back in my chair, studying Sayer.

"You said she only started saying that recently?"

He nods.

"The last few months."

"Before they disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Were they afraid?"

He thinks about it.

"They acted like they were waiting."

"For what?"

He just shrugs and shakes his head. His fingers tighten around the notebook.

"But they stopped decorating for Halloween."

Carys and I exchange a glance.

"What?"

"They loved Halloween."

He smiles faintly.

"My mom made caramel apples every year."