“Bypassing medicine altogether. At Rapture, we’ve built an implant that’s placed inside the brain. It monitors brain chemistry and releases chemicals the brain needs—when it needs them. Imagine a world without schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or depression—just to name a few. The market potential is nearly unlimited.”

“I’m interested. I’ve tried medication, but it hasn’t worked for me. What I’m most interested in is memory alteration.”

The scientist scrutinized him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m interested in erasing painful memories. Starting over, if you will.”

A pause.

“We don’t currently have a technology or procedure to do that, Mr. Hughes.”

“But you’re working on something.”

“Nothing we’re ready to discuss at this time.”

Desmond underwent the implant procedure. He kept his expectations low. Almost immediately, however, he felt results. The depression lifted. He was more excited about work. He looked forward to things. And he feared that it would all go away if the implant failed or if Rapture as a company folded. He became obsessed with the organization. He made calls, requested company filings that weren’t public. He got nowhere.

Finally, he requested a meeting with the CEO and CFO.

“I want to invest,” he said.

The CEO’s voice was flat. “We’re very well funded.”

“By whom?”

“Our investors prefer to remain anonymous.”

“Citium Holdings? Invisible Sun Securities?”

He could have heard a pin drop in the room. Both executives excused themselves. They were scared.

Desmond researched Citium and Invisible Sun endlessly. Some of their corporate filings were public by necessity. They owned shares in a dozen companies—and they had donated millions to nonprofits and foundations he had never heard of. The nonprofits were funneling all that money into research at government and private organizations. They were funding projects in genetics and medical science, advanced energy technologies, and supercomputing. What did it mean? And why were they so secretive?

Increasingly, Desmond became consumed with unraveling the Citium mystery. But try as he might, he couldn’t connect the dots. Every avenue led to a dead end.

For the most part, he lived a solitary life. He owned a small house in Menlo Park, rode his bike to work every day, and occasionally had lunch with an old colleague. He watched his investments grow and the seasons change like a time-lapse photograph, his own life in fast forward, slipping away.

He thought about Peyton almost every day. He had set up a web search alert for her name. He opened the emails instantly whenever something popped up. She graduated from medical school. Began her residency. Was accepted to the CDC’s EIS program. That made him happy. She had kept her promise: to move on with her life.