Page 341 of Faking the Goal

But another possibility slithers into my mind, darker than the first.

Maybe he has been much closer than any of us realized.

Maybe while I was searching every unfamiliar face and looking over my shoulder for a stranger hiding in the shadows, Charlie had already found a way to stand near me without being noticed.

The possibility worms deeper the longer I sit with it, until the room feels smaller and the hand wrapped around mine is the only thing stopping me from slipping completely into the terror of not knowing how close Charlie may already have been.

Detective Matthews's voice cuts through the spiral before it can drag me any further.

"Miss Lewis, do you remember when I told you we would also be looking into your foster care records?"

It takes me a second to pull my thoughts back into the room, but I manage a small nod.

"It took some time to reconstruct your placement history, verify which family you were living with during that period, and locate the juvenile case connected to what happened," he continues. "But we were able to confirm your former foster brother's legal identity. His full name is Charlie Maddox."

Hearing the name spoken aloud sends another chill through me. Until now, Charlie has existed mostly in scattered memories and faceless terror—something my mind knew before it could fully explain. But a last name makes him feel more real. More solid. Like the monster haunting my life has finally been pulled out of the shadows and given a place in the world.

Detective Matthews steps closer and removes a photograph from the folder in his hand before holding it out to me.

"This is the only confirmed image we've been able to locate so far. It's his juvenile booking photograph from when he was fifteen."

His voice softens as his eyes move briefly over my face, as though he can already see the fear crawling through me.

"I understand this may be difficult, Miss Lewis, and I'm not expecting you to recognize him immediately. More than fifteen years have passed since this photograph was taken, and his appearance could have changed considerably." He pauses, giving me a moment before adding, "But we're hoping it may bring back something you haven't been able to remember yet, or help you identify a feature that may still be useful to the investigation."

My hand trembles so violently that I almost fail to take the photograph from Detective Matthews.

For a long moment, I simply hold it without looking. My thumb presses against the edge of the worn paper while my pulse hammers wildly beneath my skin. I'd wanted to remember Charlie's face ever since my memories returned. I kept telling myself that if I could only see him clearly instead of through fractured memories and blurred nightmares, I'd finally have something concrete to hold onto. But now that the photograph is resting in my hands, every instinct I possess begs me not to turn it over. My body remembers the terror long before my mind ever does. It wants to run. To throw the photograph away. To pretend this moment never happened.

Kentaro's fingers tighten ever so slightly around mine.

"Take your time, Trouble," he murmurs, leaning down to press the softest kiss against the top of my head. "There's no rush."

I draw in a slow breath, then another, until the frantic pounding in my chest eases just enough for me to gather what little courage I have left. I didn't survive Charlie only to spend the rest of my life hiding from the ghost of him. If I want this nightmare to end, then I have to stop looking away.

Slowly...painfully slowly...

I lower my eyes to the photograph.

The boy staring back at me is younger than the monster who has haunted every nightmare I've had since my memories returned. His face is leaner, softer around the jaw, almost ordinary in a way that feels deeply unsettling. Nothing about him immediately screams monster. Nothing about him warns the world what those hands would one day be capable of doing.

My breathing begins to shallow.

I keep staring.

At first, I feel... nothing.

Only the strange discomfort of looking at a face that should mean everything to me and yet somehow feels like it belongs to a stranger. I search desperately for recognition, for some immediate certainty that this is him, but my mind gives me nothing except silence.

Then, little by little, something about him starts to feel familiar. I can't explain it. I just know that the longer I stare at his face, the stronger the feeling becomes.

Why does it feel like I've seen this face recently?

Without realizing it, I lean a little closer.

My eyes trace the lines of his face, moving slowly from his forehead to the bridge of his nose, then along the sharp line of his jaw before drifting back up again.

That's when I see it.