Chapter 8 The Anniversary Ritual

# Chapter 8: The Anniversary Ritual

I floated in a sea of memories—some sharp and vivid, others blurred at the edges like watercolors left in the rain. Faces appeared and vanished. Voices called out names I both recognized and didn't. Through it all, one constant remained: Cain. Younger, smiling more freely. Cain with his guard down, vulnerable in ways I couldn't imagine the man I knew now allowing himself to be.

When I finally surfaced from the memory recovery treatment, the facility's lights seemed too harsh, reality too solid after the fluid world I'd been inhabiting. My throat felt raw, my body drained.

"Water," I croaked.

Cain's face swam into view, concern etched in every line as he held a cup to my lips. "Slowly," he murmured. "You've been under for nearly six hours."

Six hours? It had felt like minutes and lifetimes simultaneously.

"Did it work?" Dr. Winters asked, checking my vitals with clinical efficiency. "Were you able to access the target memories?"

I nodded weakly. "The lighthouse. Ardnamurchan Point." My voice sounded distant to my own ears. "There's a maintenance shed on the eastern approach. I hid a waterproof case under the floorboards."

Relief flooded Cain's features. "You're certain?"

"I can see myself doing it." I closed my eyes briefly, the memory crystal clear now. "The night before our anniversary. I stopped there on my way to meet you, after securing the final evidence against Donovan."

Dr. Winters made notes on her tablet. "Any adverse effects? Disorientation? Nausea?"

"I'm fine," I lied, ignoring the pounding headache and the strange doubling of my vision—as if I were seeing both present and past simultaneously. "How soon can we get to the lighthouse?"

"You need rest," Cain insisted. "At least a few hours for the compound to clear your system."

"We don't have time." I struggled to sit up, fighting a wave of dizziness. "Coleman will figure out where we're headed eventually. We need that evidence."

Cain and Dr. Winters exchanged a glance I couldn't interpret.

"What aren't you telling me?" I demanded.

"The treatment was... more intensive than anticipated," Dr. Winters explained carefully. "Your brain activity suggests a significant neural reorganization is underway."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning more memories are likely to surface over the coming hours and days," Cain said. "Some may be disorienting. Some may be... difficult."

"I can handle difficult." I swung my legs over the side of the examination chair, determined to prove I was functional. "What I can't handle is sitting here while our enemies close in."

Cain sighed, recognizing the stubborn set of my jaw. "I'll make arrangements. But you rest until then—doctor's orders."

I didn't argue, partly because I knew he was right, and partly because the room had started spinning alarmingly. I allowed myself to be escorted back to my quarters, where I collapsed onto the bed, surrendering to exhaustion.

---

Dreams and memories tangled as I slept—some sweet, some terrifying. Cain and I dancing on the deck of a boat. Making love in the cliff house as a storm raged outside. Training at a firing range, his hands adjusting my stance. Fighting back-to-back against unseen enemies. His face, devastated, as I slipped from his grasp into churning waters.

I woke gasping, drenched in sweat, to find Murray's face on the tablet beside my bed.

"Isla? Can you hear me?" His expression was tense with worry.

I fumbled for the tablet. "Murray? What's happening?"

"They know," he said without preamble. "About the lighthouse. Someone in Lockhart's organization leaked it."

Cold dread washed through me. "How long?"

"They left Edinburgh two hours ago. Armed team, Coleman leading." His voice dropped. "They're not taking chances this time. Shoot on sight orders."

I was already on my feet, searching for my clothes. "Where's Cain?"

"Preparing transport. I've been trying to reach you directly." Murray glanced over his shoulder. "Listen, I don't have much time. There's something you need to know before you reach the lighthouse."

"What is it?"

"It's about Lockhart. I've been digging into his activities since your disappearance." He lowered his voice further. "Every year on the anniversary of your 'death,' he submits a resignation letter to his company's board."

I frowned, pausing in my dressing. "What?"

"Five letters total. Each one rejected by the board. But it's what's attached to the most recent one that you need to see." Murray tapped at his keyboard, sending a file to my tablet. "I accessed this from the police archives. Had to call in every favor I had."

The file opened to reveal a scanned document—a resignation letter on Cerberus Security letterhead, dated exactly one year ago. Attached was a dried, pressed flower. Small, white, delicate. Lily of the valley.

My wedding bouquet.

"There's something written on the back," Murray continued. "Some kind of code or—"

The connection abruptly cut off. I tried to reconnect, but the screen remained stubbornly blank. With growing urgency, I finished dressing and hurried from my quarters to find Cain.

I found him in what appeared to be a command center, surrounded by monitors displaying security feeds and satellite imagery. He looked up as I entered, immediately noting my distress.

"Murray contacted you," he said, not a question.

"Coleman knows about the lighthouse. They're already on their way."

He nodded grimly. "My team is monitoring their progress. We still have time to reach it first, but we need to leave now." He studied my face. "There's something else."

I hesitated, unsure how to approach what Murray had revealed. "The anniversary of my disappearance. You submit resignation letters every year."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, quickly masked. "Murray has been thorough."

"Why resignation letters?"

Cain turned back to the monitors, his posture rigid. "A ritual of sorts. A reminder that without you, none of this—" he gestured to the facility around us, "—has purpose."

"With lily of the valley attached," I added softly.

Now he did look at me, his composure slipping just enough to reveal the pain beneath. "You remember the flowers."

"I remember they were my bouquet." I moved closer, studying the tension in his shoulders. "But there's something else about them. Something significant."

He was silent for a long moment. "In Victorian flower language, lily of the valley represents 'the return of happiness.'"

"A rather optimistic choice for a resignation letter," I observed.

"I never claimed to be without contradictions." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "We need to move. The helicopter is ready."

As we made our way to the helipad on the facility's roof, more fragments of memory continued to surface—disjointed, confusing, but increasingly coherent. By the time we boarded the sleek black helicopter, I had reconstructed enough to feel like I was walking in two worlds simultaneously—the life I'd known for the past five years, and the one that had been stolen from me.

The journey to Ardnamurchan Point took just under an hour, the helicopter setting down in a clearing half a mile from the lighthouse to avoid detection. Armed members of Cain's security team accompanied us, fanning out to secure the perimeter as we approached the landmark on foot.

The lighthouse stood tall against the gray Scottish sky, its white tower a stark contrast to the rugged landscape surrounding it. As we neared the maintenance shed Murray had mentioned, a sense of déjà vu washed over me—I had been here before, had knelt on these floorboards, had secured evidence that could bring down powerful people.

"Cover us," Cain instructed his team as we reached the small wooden structure. "Coleman's team could be here any minute."

Inside, the shed was cramped and musty, filled with maintenance equipment and supplies. I moved unerringly to the northeast corner, kneeling to pry up a loose floorboard that my conscious mind hadn't known existed until the treatment had unlocked the memory.

"Here," I murmured, reaching into the dark space beneath. My fingers closed around something solid—a waterproof case, exactly as I'd remembered. "I found it."

Cain knelt beside me as I withdrew the case, his expression tense with anticipation. "Is it intact?"

I opened it carefully to reveal a sealed evidence bag containing a flash drive, a small recorder, and several documents protected by plastic sleeves. "Looks like it. Exactly as I remembered."

Relief transformed his features. "This could change everything. Clear your name, expose Coleman and his masters."

As I examined the contents more carefully, something caught my eye—a small envelope tucked into the side of the case, my name written on it in my own handwriting. I opened it to find a folded note and a key. Not the lighthouse key Cain had given me, but similar—this one attached to a small compass keychain.

"What is it?" Cain asked, noting my confusion.

"A message. From me. To me." I unfolded the note with trembling fingers, reading words I'd written five years ago:

*If you're reading this, something went wrong. The evidence is only half the story. The rest is where it all began. Trust no one until you see the full picture. Even him.*

The last two words sent a chill through me. Even him. Had I suspected Cain? Or was it a warning about someone else?

Before I could share my discovery, one of Cain's men burst into the shed. "Sir, incoming vehicles. Three SUVs, approaching fast from the south road."

"Coleman," Cain said grimly, helping me to my feet. "We need to move."

I quickly repacked the case, slipping the note and key into my pocket. As we emerged from the shed, gunfire erupted from the tree line—Coleman's team had arrived sooner than expected and had our position surrounded.

"Fall back to the lighthouse!" Cain ordered, drawing his weapon as his men returned fire. "Secure the evidence!"

We ran toward the towering structure, bullets kicking up dirt at our heels. One of Cain's men fell, clutching his leg. Another moved to help him while providing covering fire.

Inside the lighthouse, Cain secured the heavy door behind us. "The helicopter is compromised. We need another exit strategy."

I was barely listening, my attention caught by something on the circular wall of the lighthouse entrance—a framed collection of historical documents about the landmark. Among them was a faded photograph showing the lighthouse under construction in the late 19th century.

In the foreground stood a bearded man holding what appeared to be architectural plans. Around his neck hung a compass—identical to the one on the key I'd just found.

"Cain," I said slowly, "I think I know where the other half of the evidence is."

Before he could respond, the windows shattered under a hail of gunfire. We ducked behind a stone information desk as bullets ricocheted off the lighthouse walls.

"Tell me on the move," he said, pulling me toward the spiral staircase that led to the top of the lighthouse. "We need higher ground."

As we climbed, the pieces clicked into place in my mind—the compass key, the photograph, my cryptic note. "The evidence in the shed is only half of what I collected. I split it up for security."

"Smart," Cain panted as we continued our ascent. "Where's the other half?"

"The archives facility," I realized. "Where Coleman tried to lure me. There must be a hidden safe or compartment that this key opens."

We reached the top of the lighthouse, the lamp room offering a panoramic view of the surrounding area. Coleman's men had the building surrounded, with more vehicles arriving.

"We're trapped," I said, assessing our situation. "No way out except through them."

Cain moved to the seaward side of the lamp room, peering down at the churning waters below. "Not necessarily."

The familiar look in his eyes sent a jolt of fear through me. "No. Not again."

"History repeats itself," he said grimly. "But this time, we stay together."

The door at the bottom of the lighthouse crashed open, voices shouting orders as Coleman's men began their ascent.

"Do you trust me?" Cain asked, holding out his hand.

Five years ago, I had gone over a cliff alone, losing everything. Now, facing a similar choice, I looked at the man who had never stopped searching for me, never stopped fighting to bring me back.

I took his hand. "Together."

As Coleman's men reached the top of the stairs, we smashed through the seaward window and leapt into the churning waters below, the evidence case clutched tightly against my chest.

The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, the cold nearly paralyzing. But this time, Cain's hand remained firmly clasped in mine as we surfaced together, fighting the current that threatened to dash us against the rocks.

"There!" he shouted over the roar of the waves, pointing to a small cove partially hidden by an outcropping. "We can make it!"

As bullets struck the water around us, we swam with desperate strength toward the cove, where I could now see one of Cain's men waiting with a small inflatable boat.

We had the evidence. We had a way out. For the first time since waking up in that hospital five years ago, I felt like I was swimming toward something rather than away—toward truth, toward justice.

Toward remembering who I truly was.