Chapter 7 Love Letters in Electrodes

# Chapter 7: Love Letters in Electrodes

I return home from Indigo Ink with my mind in chaos and my purse holding damning evidence—the vial of blue liquid, the DNA analysis, and the photographs from the hidden laboratory. Each piece reveals another fragment of an impossible truth: I am not who I think I am, or rather, I am not only who I think I am.

Helen is waiting when I arrive, her face tight with disapproval. "Dr. Harlow has been trying to reach you," she says, holding up her phone. "He was concerned when you weren't here for your medication."

"I needed some air," I reply, moving past her toward the bedroom. "I'm feeling much better today."

"He asked me to administer your injection if you returned before he could get home."

I freeze mid-step. "Injection? What injection?"

Helen's expression doesn't change. "Your weekly stabilization treatment. It's on your chart."

"No," I say firmly, turning to face her. "Rowan never mentioned injections, only pills. I'm not taking anything new without discussing it with him directly."

A flash of something—frustration? alarm?—crosses her face before her professional mask returns. "As you wish. But he specifically mentioned that missing this dose could trigger another episode."

"I'll risk it."

She leaves reluctantly, promising to report my "non-compliance" to Rowan. The moment she's gone, I hide my collected evidence in a hollowed-out book on the guest room shelf, then prepare for the confrontation I know is coming.

Rowan arrives thirty minutes later, his casual demeanor belied by the tension around his eyes. "Helen says you disappeared this morning."

"I went for a walk," I say, watching his reaction. "Needed to clear my head."

"A walk." He sets his briefcase down carefully. "To Indigo Ink, perhaps?"

So he knows. The question is how—did Helen track me? Is my phone monitored? Or does the surveillance extend beyond our home?

"Yes," I admit. "I spoke with Marcus."

Rowan's composure slips for a fraction of a second—just enough to confirm that this revelation concerns him. "I see. And what did Marcus tell you?"

"That you paid him to tattoo me three times. The same snake design, in the same location. A design that mysteriously disappeared each time."

He sighs, removing his jacket as if settling in for a difficult conversation. "I was hoping to explain this when you were more stable. Yes, you had several tattoos. Each time, your body rejected the ink—an unusual but documented reaction. The memory loss around these events is consistent with your condition."

"My condition," I repeat. "The mysterious mental illness that conveniently explains away anything that contradicts your version of reality."

"Faye, please—"

"No." I step closer, anger finally overtaking fear. "No more gaslighting. No more convenient explanations. I want the truth about Project Mirror."

The color drains from his face. "Where did you hear that name?"

"Does it matter? I know about the experiments. The electrode implants in both of us. The DNA-infused tattoo ink. The 'mirror subjects.' I know about Dr. Eleanor Faye."

Rowan sinks into a chair, suddenly looking exhausted. "How much do you remember?"

"Not remember. Discovered." I keep my distance, wary of his reaction. "I found your hidden lab near Indigo Ink. I saw the files, the photos, the research proposal you wrote with her—with the other me."

He is silent for a long moment, studying me with new intensity. "And the blue compound? Did you take samples of that too?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough.

"That was reckless," he says quietly. "The serum is unstable outside controlled conditions. It could accelerate the process beyond our ability to manage it."

"What process? Stop talking in riddles, Rowan. Tell me what you've done to me."

He leans forward, hands clasped before him. "Not to you. With you. Or rather, with her. Eleanor." He takes a deep breath. "Three years ago, we discovered something extraordinary—a neurological phenomenon we called 'mirror consciousness.' Certain individuals, under specific conditions, can perceive and eventually interact with their counterpart from an alternate quantum reality."

I stare at him, waiting for more.

"Eleanor was my research partner," he continues. "Brilliant neuroscientist, just like you. We were developing technology to map neural pathways when we accidentally created a bridge between realities. Eleanor discovered she could perceive her mirror self—you—through reflective surfaces."

"That's impossible," I whisper, though after everything I've seen, I'm no longer certain what's possible.

"That's what the scientific community said when we tried to publish our findings. We were ridiculed, our funding pulled. So we continued privately, using our own resources." His expression softens. "Eleanor and I were more than colleagues. Just as you and your Rowan were."

"My Rowan?" The implication staggers me. "Are you saying you're not..."

"I am Rowan Harlow," he says carefully. "But not the Rowan who proposed to you on the Charles River bridge. Not the Rowan who kissed you in the rain outside that conference in Seattle."

Memories flash through my mind—a bridge at sunset, a rainy city street—moments I've treasured as ours. But they weren't with this man.

"Then where is he? My Rowan?"

"That's complicated," he says, looking away. "The transition process wasn't supposed to happen this way."

A horrible suspicion forms. "The body. The blood in our bedroom. That was him, wasn't it? My Rowan."

He doesn't answer immediately, which tells me everything. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "It wasn't supposed to happen. The protocol had failsafes."

Grief hits me like a physical blow—grief for a man I loved but can barely remember clearly, whose face I've been drawing in my sleep. "You killed him."

"No," he says sharply. "I would never—" He stops himself. "The process failed. Both subjects need to be properly prepared for consciousness transfer. Your Rowan wasn't ready when Eleanor initiated the crossing."

"And me? Was I 'properly prepared' when you put electrodes in my brain and filled me with blue chemicals?"

"You were never supposed to be part of this," he says, his voice strained. "Eleanor was supposed to cross over alone, to verify the stability of the bridge before attempting to bring me through. But something went wrong. The connection between you two became... entangled."

I think of the strange moments before the mirror, the blue liquid I vomited, the sense of another presence inside me. "She's in me, isn't she? Parts of her consciousness, her memories."

He nods slowly. "The electrodes were meant to stabilize your brain during the integration, to prevent exactly what's happening now—memory bleed-through, personality fragmentation, psychotic episodes."

"They're not psychotic episodes," I say with sudden clarity. "They're moments when she's stronger than your suppression technology." I touch my temple where I apparently removed an electrode three weeks ago. "That's what happened the night of the 'murder.' She broke through."

Rowan stands and moves to the window, his back to me. "Eleanor was always stronger than we anticipated. More determined." He turns to face me, his expression complex. "She loved her Rowan as much as you loved yours. When she realized the crossing had gone wrong, that her actions had led to his death, she became... unstable."

"And now you're trying to stop her from taking over completely," I conclude. "That's what the medication is for. What the injection would have done."

"The integration can still be controlled," he insists. "We can still achieve balance—a new consciousness that preserves the best of both you and Eleanor."

"While conveniently erasing the fact that you killed my fiancé." The pieces align with terrible logic. "You're not trying to help me. You're trying to salvage your experiment and cover up a murder."

"It's more complicated than that." He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back away. "Faye, please. Let me administer the stabilization compound. You're approaching a critical threshold. If Eleanor gains complete control—"

"Then what? She'd expose what you've done? Seek justice for her Rowan's death?" The irony hits me. "That's why you had me committed when I 'confessed' to killing you. You knew I was actually remembering her Rowan's death."

His silence confirms my theory.

"I need to think," I say, moving toward the guest bedroom. "Don't follow me."

Surprisingly, he respects my request, though I hear him making a phone call as I close the door—probably to Dr. Norris, arranging another "emergency intervention."

Alone in the room, I retrieve the blue vial from its hiding place. The liquid inside seems to shimmer with its own light, responding to my touch with subtle movement. I'm certain now that this is the key to everything—the bridge between realities, the physical manifestation of Eleanor's consciousness trying to fully emerge.

But can I trust her any more than I can trust Rowan? If she's willing to sacrifice me to return to her reality or avenge her lover's death, am I just trading one form of manipulation for another?

I need more information—specifically, I need to know what's in the ring Rowan took from the hospital. The chip that Dr. Norris was so insistent I examine myself.

My opportunity comes after midnight. Rowan finally goes to bed after hours of working in his study, leaving his briefcase in the living room. Inside, I find a small security pouch with a combination lock. Using the same code that opened his safe—070923—I access the contents: the blue diamond ring with its hidden compartment, now empty of its microchip.

Or so I thought. When I examine it more closely under the desk lamp, I notice a secondary compartment beneath where the first chip was found. This one is even more cleverly disguised, visible only when the ring catches light at a specific angle.

With trembling fingers, I manage to open this hidden section, revealing another microchip—smaller than the first, almost microscopic. Beside it is a tiny slip of paper with handwritten instructions: "Place against electrode point 7 (left temple) and press for 3 seconds."

I hesitate, acutely aware that this could be another trap, another layer of manipulation. But whose? Did Rowan plant this as a backup control mechanism? Or did Eleanor create it as a way to communicate if her crossing went wrong?

Only one way to find out.

I retreat to the bathroom, locking the door and sitting on the edge of the tub facing the mirror. My reflection looks haggard, dark circles under my eyes, skin pale from stress and lack of proper sleep. I carefully extract the microchip, smaller than a grain of rice, and locate the spot on my left temple where I can feel the slight ridge of an implanted electrode beneath the skin.

"Here goes nothing," I whisper to my reflection.

I press the chip against the spot and count. One... two... three...

For a moment, nothing happens. Then pain explodes through my skull—white-hot agony that sends me crashing to the floor, biting my lip to keep from screaming. Behind my eyes, lights flash in complex patterns, and a high-pitched whine fills my ears.

Gradually, the pain subsides, replaced by a strange warmth spreading through my brain. I pull myself up to look in the mirror again, and freeze—my reflection is moving independently, watching me with sad eyes as I clutch the edge of the sink.

"Finally," my reflection says, her lips moving while mine remain still. "I've been trying to reach you for weeks."

I stare in shock. "Eleanor?"

She nods. "There isn't much time. The chip will only maintain this connection for a few minutes before burning out."

"What's happening to me? To us?"

"The integration is accelerating," she says urgently. "Soon there won't be a 'you' and 'me'—just a hybrid consciousness that Rowan can control through the electrode array."

"Why? Why would he do this?"

"Because in our reality, I discovered what he really wanted from Project Mirror." Her expression hardens. "Not scientific breakthrough, not the Nobel Prize he claimed to desire. He wants to be a god—to create and control new forms of consciousness."

"And your Rowan? My fiancé?"

Pain crosses her face. "He discovered what my Rowan was planning. Tried to warn me, to shut down the project. So my Rowan killed him—made it look like a failed crossing."

This contradicts what Rowan told me—that Eleanor initiated a crossing that went wrong. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't," she admits. "That's the cruel irony. Neither of us can fully trust our memories anymore—they've been manipulated too many times." She leans closer to the glass, as if trying to reach through. "But I left you evidence. Insurance against exactly this situation."

"The ring? The chip?"

"Yes. And more." Her image begins to flicker. "The connection is failing. Listen carefully. There's a final backup, a recording I made before attempting the crossing. It's hidden at the coordinates stored in the chip you just activated."

"What coordinates? I didn't see any—"

"You will. When the chip burns out, the data will transfer directly to your hippocampus—one of the few areas they haven't compromised with electrodes." She's fading now, her voice becoming distant. "Find the recording. It explains everything—what really happened to your Rowan, how to break free of the electrode control."

"Wait! How will I know if it's real? If it's not just another manipulation?"

Her smile is sad, knowing. "You won't. That's the nature of our situation—a liar's paradox. If I tell you I'm lying, am I telling the truth?" She begins to disappear, her voice now just a whisper. "Trust your instincts. They've gotten you this far despite everything they've done to suppress them."

As her image fades, replaced by my own shocked reflection, she manages one final message:

"Find the coordinates. Come to where we first met. I've left you Plan B."

Then she's gone, and I'm alone again, staring at my ordinary reflection. The chip against my temple has turned black, burned out just as she predicted. I remove it carefully, noticing that it's left a small red mark on my skin.

Almost immediately, new information floods my consciousness—not as memories exactly, but as knowledge that wasn't there before. Geographical coordinates, precise to six decimal places. And a date: July 9, 2023, the date inscribed in the ring.

I recognize the location instantly, though I've never consciously been there—a small cafe on the Harvard campus where, according to this implanted knowledge, Eleanor and Rowan first met seven years ago. The same place where, in my reality, I first met my Rowan.

The parallel gives me chills. How many other moments in our lives mirrored each other before our paths diverged?

I hear movement in the hallway—Rowan, awake and approaching the bathroom door. Quickly, I flush the burned-out chip down the toilet and splash water on my face to explain my presence here.

"Faye?" His voice comes through the door, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," I call back, trying to steady my breathing. "Just feeling a little nauseated."

"Let me get you something for that."

"No!" I say too quickly. "No more medications. I'm coming out now."

When I open the door, he's standing there in pajama pants and a t-shirt, looking genuinely worried. For a moment, I see a flash of my Rowan in his features—the man I loved, the man who may have died trying to prevent exactly what's happening to me now.

"You're pale," Rowan says, reaching to touch my forehead. "And you're running a fever."

I step back from his touch. "I just need rest."

He studies me intently, perhaps noticing the small mark on my temple where I applied the chip. "Did something happen in there? Did you... experience anything unusual?"

"Just nausea," I lie. "Probably from stress."

He doesn't believe me—I can see it in his eyes—but he nods slowly. "Come back to bed. Our bed. It's been weeks, and you need proper rest."

The invitation surprises me. He's kept a careful distance since my return from the hospital, never suggesting I move back into the master bedroom. Why now? Does he suspect what I've done? Is he planning something while I sleep?

"I'm comfortable in the guest room," I say cautiously.

"Please, Faye." His voice softens, becoming almost the voice of the man I remember loving. "I miss you."

The manipulation is so transparent it would be laughable if it weren't so insidious. He wants me close to monitor me, perhaps to administer that injection Helen mentioned while I sleep.

"Tomorrow, maybe," I deflect. "Tonight I need my own space."

Disappointment and something harder—calculation—flashes across his face before he nods. "As you wish. But please, take your evening pill at least. Your brain chemistry is extremely delicate right now."

I agree, knowing I'll dispose of the pill as usual. As I return to the guest room, my mind races with plans. I need to visit those coordinates, to find Eleanor's "Plan B" before Rowan realizes what I know. But how to escape his surveillance?

The answer comes as I'm feigning sleep, hearing him check on me one last time before retiring to his study. The coordinates Eleanor implanted aren't just a location—they include a time. July 9, 2023 isn't just a date inscribed in a ring or planned for a wedding that will never happen.

It's tomorrow.