Room #237

The detective's pen had been clicking for exactly four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

Click.

Pause.

Click-click.

Pause.

The rhythm was driving me insane, but I couldn't stop counting.

"Let's go over this again," Detective Morrison said, not looking up from his notepad. He had a coffee stain on his tie that looked like a small bird, and his wedding ring had a scratch on the band that caught the fluorescent light every time he moved his hand.

I shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. The police station smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant, and the clock on the wall was running three minutes slow. "I already told you everything I saw."

"Humor me."

I sighed. This was the third time they'd called me in about the library incident, and I was starting to regret ever saying anything. My mom had been furious when they first called.

"What exactly did you see, Grace, that you couldn't just mind your own business?" she'd snapped.

Now she was sitting outside in the waiting area, probably checking her watch every thirty seconds and calculating how much work she was missing.

"It was last Tuesday, around 2:47 PM. I was in the reference section working on my college essay when I noticed a man acting strangely near the children's area."

"Strangely, how?"

"He was pretending to read a magazine, but his eyes drifted to the kids. He'd been there for about twenty minutes, which is longer than most people spend in that section unless they're actually with children." I paused. "Also, he was holding the magazine upside down."

Detective Morrison looked up. "You're sure about the time?"

"2:47 PM. The grandfather clock in the lobby chimed the three-quarter hour just as I noticed him." I watched Morrison scribble this down, even though he'd written the same thing twice before. "He was wearing a blue windbreaker, jeans with a small hole near the left knee, and white sneakers that looked new but had a scuff mark on the right toe."

"And you're certain about these details because...?"

"Because I was there. I saw him." The words came out sharper than I intended. "He had brown hair, about six feet tall, maybe one-seventy pounds. Small scar through his left eyebrow."

Detective Morrison set down his pen and looked at me directly. "Grace, I have to ask—is there something you're not telling me? Some reason you were watching this guy so closely?"

Here it was. The question I'd been dreading. "He seemed out of place."

"Out of place, how?"

"Adults don't usually linger in the children's section alone. When they do, they're looking for something specific—a book for their kid, research materials. This man was just... watching."

"But you noticed all these physical details about him. That's unusual."

I folded my hands in my lap. "I notice things."

"Most people don't notice this much." His voice was gentler now. "Grace, what magazine was he holding?"

"Time magazine. October 15th issue. The cover story was about climate change." I met his eyes. "And before you ask—yes, I'm sure it was upside down. The masthead was at the bottom."

The silence stretched between us. I could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant ringing of phones, and someone typing at a computer three rooms over.

"Grace, I'm going to be straight with you. That man you saw? He's wanted in connection with several incidents involving children in three different states. Your description helped us identify him."

My stomach dropped. "What kind of incidents?"

"The kind that makes parents lose sleep." He leaned forward. "The problem is, he's smart. Careful. We've been tracking him for months, but he never leaves evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, no witnesses who can give us anything useful."

"Until now."

"Until now."

I sat back, trying to process what he was telling me. Someone dangerous. Someone who hurt children. And I was the only person who could identify him.

"Did you catch him?"

"We're working on it. But Grace, there's something else." Morrison glanced at the door. "There's someone here who wants to talk to you. Someone from the FBI."

Before I could respond, the door opened without a knock. A woman entered—Asian-American, maybe mid-forties, with prematurely gray hair pulled back in a neat bun. Unlike Detective Morrison's rumpled appearance, she was impeccably dressed in a navy suit. What struck me most was her hands—perfectly manicured, but with a small bandage on her left ring finger.

"Grace? I'm Dr. Sarah Chen. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."

"I didn't agree to anything." I studied her face. "And you didn't knock."

She paused, hand still on the door handle. "You're right. I apologize. May I sit?"

I gestured to the chair across from me. "How do you know my name?"

"Detective Morrison told me." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. There was something rehearsed about the expression. "I drove up from Seattle to speak with you specifically."

"Why?"

"Your statement about the suspect was remarkably detailed. Most witnesses remember general impressions—tall, short, dark hair, light hair. You provided specifics that helped us identify him within hours."

I watched her carefully. She was choosing her words too precisely, like she was following a script. "So you came all this way to thank me?"

"Not exactly." She pulled out a small digital recorder. "Would you mind if I recorded this conversation?"

"Actually, yes, I would mind." I crossed my arms. "Detective Morrison already has everything written down, and I remember it perfectly. So why do you need to record it?"

Dr. Chen put the recorder away. "Grace, I'm going to be direct with you. Your memory isn't just good—it's exceptional. Eidetic, possibly."

"My memory is fine."

"It's more than fine. It's extraordinary." She leaned forward. "How many other people do you know who could provide a witness statement like yours?"

I didn't answer.

"The FBI has a specialized unit that works with individuals who have unique cognitive abilities. Pattern recognition, behavioral analysis, memory recall." She paused. "We'd like to offer you a position."

"A position?"

"You'd work with a team of other young people, using your abilities to help solve cases that conventional methods can't crack."

The word 'team' caught my attention. "Other people like me?"

"Yes. You wouldn't be alone."

I felt a flicker of something—hope, maybe. I'd spent my whole life feeling like a freak for remembering everything. "Where would this be?"

"A secure facility in Virginia. You'd finish high school through an accelerated program while training with your team."

"Training for what?"

"To analyze evidence. Photos, videos, documents. Help us find patterns and connections that others might miss."

Something about her tone made me pause. Too smooth, too practiced. "What aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You drove all the way from Seattle to recruit a seventeen-year-old girl. That's not normal FBI procedure." I tilted my head. "This is about more than just the library case, isn't it?"

Dr. Chen was quiet for a moment. "You're very perceptive."

"And you're very evasive."

She pulled out a file folder, her movements deliberate. "The man from the library isn't working alone. We believe he's part of a larger network—people who traffic children. We've been tracking similar cases across the country, but we've never had a witness who could provide the kind of detailed information you can."

She slid a photograph across the table. A little girl with dark curls and a gap-toothed smile, wearing a yellow dress with small flowers. She looked like she could have been one of the children I'd seen at the library that day.

"This is Emma Hartwell. She disappeared from a playground in Richmond two days ago. We think she's still alive, but we're running out of time."

My hands trembled as I picked up the photo. "You think the man from the library took her?"

"We think he's connected to her disappearance. And right now, you're our best lead."

The weight of it hit me like a physical blow. An innocent child, maybe still alive, and I was the only one who could help save her.

"What would I have to do?"

"Look at evidence. Help us understand how these people think, where they might go next." She paused. "I won't lie to you, Grace. Some of what you'd see would be disturbing. But you'd be helping to save lives."

As she spoke, I caught sight of another photograph in her folder—a boy around my age with serious dark eyes and what looked like a bruise fading on his left cheek. The background showed an institutional-looking hallway with security cameras in the corners.

"Who's that?"

"What?"

"The boy in the photo."

Dr. Chen hesitated, then showed me the picture. "His name is Alex. He has a gift for reading people, understanding their motivations and behaviors."

I studied the image more carefully. The bruise was about three days old, based on the color. "What happened to his face?"

"Training can be physically demanding."

"Training for what? I thought we were analyzing evidence."

"You are. But there are other skills you need to learn. Self-defense, stress management, how to handle dangerous situations."

"I thought you said we'd never be in direct contact with suspects."

"You won't be. But the people we're after are resourceful. It's better to be prepared."

A chill ran down my spine. I remembered her exact words from earlier: "You'd work with a team of other young people, using your abilities to help solve cases." Not "You'd be safe." Not "You'd be protected." Just that we'd be useful.

"Has anyone in the program ever been hurt?"

"Grace, I've said too much already." She stood up. "I need an answer. Are you willing to join the program or not?"

I looked at Emma's photo again, then at Alex with his bruised face and guarded eyes. Everything about this felt wrong—the rushed recruitment, the evasive answers, the prison-like facility. But Emma was still missing.

"I need to talk to my parents first."

"Of course. We'll need their consent anyway." She gathered her papers. "But Grace, you should know—we have reason to believe Emma is being moved tonight. Every hour we wait increases the risk that we'll lose her trail completely."

"How do you know that?"

"Pattern analysis. Based on previous cases." She met my eyes. "Your memories of the suspect could be the key to predicting where he'll go next."

I felt trapped between my suspicions and the terrible urgency in her voice. "I want to see the facility first. Before I decide."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Security protocols."

"Then I want to talk to Alex. Or one of the other kids in the program."

"Also not possible. They're in the middle of a critical operation."

Every answer made me more suspicious, but Emma's face stared up at me from the table. A child who looked like she could have been playing in the library children's section last Tuesday, if things had gone differently.

"I need time to think."

"We don't have time." Dr. Chen's voice was sharp now. "Emma doesn't have time."

The pressure felt calculated, designed to make me act without thinking. But what if she was right? What if waiting meant losing the only chance to save this little girl?

I closed my eyes and tried to remember every detail of my conversation with Dr. Chen—her expressions, her hesitations, the bandage on her finger, the way she'd avoided my questions about the other kids in the program.

And Alex's bruised face.

When I opened my eyes, Dr. Chen was watching me intently. "Grace?"

"I'll do it," I whispered. "But I have conditions."

"What conditions?"

"I want to talk to my parents about this properly. Not rushed, not pressured. They deserve to know what they're signing up for."

"Of course."

"And I want regular contact with them. Weekly phone calls, minimum."

Dr. Chen nodded. "That can be arranged."

"And if I decide this isn't for me, I can leave. No questions asked."

"Absolutely."

Something in her tone made me doubt that last promise, but I had to try. Emma was running out of time, and I was the only one who could help her.

"When do I start?"

"We'll send a car for you tomorrow morning at eight. Pack light—everything you need will be provided."

As she left, I sat alone in the interrogation room, staring at the space where Emma's photo had been. I'd made my choice, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just agreed to something much bigger and more dangerous than I understood.

The clock on the wall was still running slow, and Detective Morrison's pen had finally stopped clicking.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember everything—every word, every expression, every detail that might matter later. Because if I were walking into something dangerous, I needed to be prepared.

Even if I didn't know what I was preparing for.