“What’s the rest?” Sel points to a table under the written summary.

I realize what the table is almost immediately. “Check-ins. They’re all dated like a log, with columns for date, time, location, and a short section for notes.” I point to one of the early rows. “ ‘May 1, 1995. 10:31 a.m. Undergraduate library, UNC-CH. Working with Ms. Carter on a group project final for our LING 207 class. Have spent several hours with her this week. Even with some gentle probing about campus events, she does not mention or recall last month’s attack.’ ”

Sel hums. “They didn’t just watch her, they tested her. How many entries are there?”

I flip the page. And flip again. And flip again. “There must be dozens of pages here. At least one entry every week for the first year, then once a month after graduation… They kept tabs on her for years.”

“Witness protection,” he murmurs. “Sort of.” He clears his throat and takes the stack from me, thumbing to the very back. “Let’s see what the last entry says.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Okay.”

Sel pauses, his finger resting on the final slip of paper in the back, and dips his head to catch my eye. “This is the last page,” he says, but I hear the meaning behind the words. I know what he’s really asking me: Are you ready?

My heart pounds in my chest, and blood rushes in my ears like an ocean. Am I ready? I’d started this whole mission worried about finding the truth and convinced that nothing could be worse than not knowing. But now?

Sel’s eyes are patient but wary, and no wonder; he’d just learned his own horrible truth.

“Read it.”

“ ‘May 13, 2020. 9:18 a.m. Bentonville County Hospital, Bentonville, North Carolina. Ms. Carter was killed in a hit-and-run near her home at 8:47 p.m. last night, May twelfth. I was alerted to her death by a Vassal working in the local police department. In order to confirm Ms. Carter’s death, I assumed the identity of an officer. She leaves behind a husband, Edwin Matthews, and a teenage daughter. As recorded in the enclosed logs, Ms. Carter has never shown any evidence of her memory returning or knowledge of the incidents. As such, she has not, in the past or currently, given cause to pursue containment steps. This is the final entry in Witness Eleven’s file.’ ”

Sel passes me the paper, but I wave it away. I can’t touch it.

I can’t breathe.

“Is this the Merlin you saw?”

I drag my eyes back to a small photo clipped to the back of the file. In a single rushing moment, I’m back at the hospital with new details filling in the blanks. Thin mouth, bushy brows, blue eyes. His badge flickering in the light.