Chapter 19: The Witness Who Forgot
The Baxter dinner had been exactly what I'd expected — expensive wine, carefully vague conversation, and a man who wanted to know how much I knew without revealing anything himself.
Three days later, I still didn't have anything actionable. Baxter had been polished, professional, and completely impenetrable. He'd thanked me for catching the arsonist, asked pointed questions about my "psychic process," and left me with the distinct impression that I was being evaluated for something I didn't understand.
The corkboard at the Psych office still had his name circled in red. But corkboards didn't solve cases, and cases were what paid the bills.
"Mr. Spencer?"
The hospital corridor was quiet — that particular institutional silence that made footsteps echo and voices carry. A doctor in blue scrubs was approaching with a clipboard and the expression of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
"I'm Dr. Melissa Chen. You're here about Sara Hendricks?"
"The carjacking witness. The one with the memory problems."
"Traumatic amnesia." She fell into step beside me as we walked toward the patient rooms. "Sara witnessed a violent crime three days ago. The trauma triggered a dissociative response — her brain is protecting itself by blocking access to the memories associated with the event."
"Will she recover?"
"Usually, yes. These cases resolve within days to weeks, depending on the patient's emotional support system and whether they encounter sensory triggers associated with the original trauma."
"Motor oil. In the show, she recovers when she smells motor oil — the same scent from the carjacker's garage."
I knew the episode. Sara's memory returns in a neat three-day arc, triggered by the specific sensory cue, testimony delivered, carjacker caught. Clean. Predictable. A case I could have solved in my sleep.
But Sara wasn't a plot point. She was a twenty-six-year-old woman sitting in a hospital bed with bandages on her forehead and the particular fragility of someone whose mind had decided to protect her by taking something away.
"Can I see her?"
"She's been asking for visitors. Her family is out of state, and the police interviews haven't been... productive." Dr. Chen stopped outside a door. "She's scared, Mr. Spencer. Go easy."
Sara Hendricks had brown hair, tired eyes, and the kind of nervous energy that came from waiting for something terrible to make sense.
"Hi." I took the chair beside her bed, keeping my voice soft. "My name is Shawn Spencer. I'm a consultant with the Santa Barbara Police Department."
"The psychic." A small smile crossed her face. "The nurses were talking about you. They said you solved the Comic-Con murder."
"Word travels fast in hospitals."
"There's not much else to do here except listen." She shifted against her pillows. "I'm sorry I can't help with your case. I want to remember. I've been trying. But every time I think about that night, it's just... static."
"I could trigger it. Find something that smells like motor oil, bring it here, and her memory would unlock. Case solved in an afternoon."
But looking at Sara — at the bandages, at the exhaustion, at the fear she was trying to hide behind cooperation — I couldn't do it. Rushing a traumatized person's recovery to serve a timeline felt wrong, even when I knew the timeline.
"Don't worry about the case right now." I leaned back in the chair. "Tell me about your day. What did you have for breakfast?"
"Hospital oatmeal." She made a face. "It was terrible."
"All hospital oatmeal is terrible. It's a universal constant. Like gravity, but with more raisins."
She laughed — surprised, genuine. The sound transformed her face.
"Do you want to know what I remember about the crime?"
"Only if you want to tell me. But honestly?" I gestured at the window, where afternoon sunlight was streaming through. "I'm more interested in how you're feeling. Cases can wait. People can't."
[+5 XP — GENUINE EMPATHY INTERACTION]
The notification scrolled past, and I dismissed it. Some things weren't about points.
We talked for an hour. Not about the carjacking — about her job as a graphic designer, her cat named Pixel, her plans to visit her parents in Oregon when she got out of here. Normal things. Human things.
By the time I left, Sara was smiling more than she had been when I arrived.
"Will you come back tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah." I meant it. "I will."
The hospital corridor was empty as I walked toward the exit. The afternoon light had shifted into evening gold, casting long shadows across the linoleum.
[XP THRESHOLD REACHED: 600/600][SYSTEM LEVEL UP: 3 → 4][NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: NOSTALGIA BANK][TIER 0 REALITY MARBLES: ACCESSIBLE]
I stopped walking. The HUD had shifted — new elements appearing at the edges of my vision like a software update completing in the background.
[NOSTALGIA BANK: ACTIVE][NP: 82/100][AVAILABLE PROTOCOLS:][— SOUNDTRACK SHIFT (5 NP): +1 CT PASSIVE. DURATION: 1 SCENE. AUDIO: PERSONAL ONLY.][— LENS FLARE (3 NP): +1 PT DURING PERFORMANCE. DURATION: 30 SECONDS.]
Reality Marbles. The system features I'd been reading about since the first day — ways to manipulate the environment to enhance performance, all powered by the nostalgia points I'd been accumulating.
Tier 0 was the entry level. Minor effects, invisible to others, personal enhancements rather than environmental changes.
"Soundtrack Shift. Let's see what that does."
I mentally selected the protocol and felt 5 NP drain from my bank.
[NP: 77/100][SOUNDTRACK SHIFT: ACTIVATED][DURATION: CURRENT SCENE]
The effect was immediate and strange. Faint '80s synth music began playing in my ears — not loud, just present, like background music in a movie scene. The hospital corridor, previously sterile and institutional, suddenly felt different. Warmer. More cinematic.
"I'm the only one who can hear this."
The realization hit with unexpected weight. I'd unlocked a feature that literally changed how I experienced the world, and nobody else would ever know. The music swelled slightly as I walked, responding to my pace, and for a moment the Santa Barbara General Hospital corridor felt like a scene from St. Elmo's Fire.
[CT: +1 PASSIVE WHILE SOUNDTRACK SHIFT ACTIVE]
The stat boost was nice. But the feeling — the sense that reality itself could be adjusted to match internal experience — was something else entirely.
My phone buzzed. Text from Gus.
Comic-Con forger arraigned today. Prosecution says open-and-shut.
Good. The Victor Chen case was closing properly. The carjacking case was in progress. And I'd just unlocked the first real power the system had offered since Shawn Vision.
The synth music continued as I walked out of the hospital into the evening air. Tomorrow I'd visit Sara again. The day after that, maybe she'd remember something. Or maybe she wouldn't, and I'd have to solve the case the hard way.
Either way, I wasn't going to rush her.
Some things were more important than timelines.
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