Aiden Forelow

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with an annoying, high-pitched electrical hum. Between us on the desk, the notebook lay open. "YOU WILL DIE TOMORROW." The four words stared back at me in thick ink. I set my cold coffee mug down, leaning my forearms on the desk. "Aiden," I said. "Explain why you wrote this under my name." His habitual stillness broke. His gaze dropped to the paper, a sudden, sharp tremor running through his right hand before he clasped his knee. When he looked up, his face lacked its usual detached mask. "I don't know the specifics," he whispered, leaning forward. "I never do. It's like hearing a scream underwater. You know when someone's hurt, but you can't tell where they are. Just that they won't be breathing long." "You've had this notebook for 5 years." "I write everyone's name eventually," he said, his voice flat, dry. "I wrote yours the first week you started, doctor. But you're the only one whose name keeps reappearing." I pulled the ledger closer, closing it. "We're done for today." Later that night, the radiator in my apartment clanked like rusted pipe fitting against metal. The glow of my laptop screen cut through the dark living room. I typed Aiden Forelow into the state database. The initial admission form was half-blacked out with heavy redactions. I shifted to regional police archives from Maine, scrolling through dead links until a single archived log from Bangor hit the screen.Something from six years ago. Domestic disturbance at Forelow residence. Responding officers reported male, early thirties, matching description of Aiden Forelow, attempting to drown younger brother in family bathtub. Nine days after that report, a house fire killed the rest of his family. The official record listed his whereabouts as unknown. My phone vibrated on the desk. A text from Eve: Marley wants you in his office first thing. Reassignment.