I survived the basement by memorizing every sound he made.
The slow step on the stairs. The scrape of the knife drawer.
The way he said my name like a prayer he hated.
Three days after I escaped, the police showed me the newest victim.
A man lay on the morgue table with my initials carved into his palm.
I had never met him.
Then Detective Hale opened the evidence bag.
Inside was a photo of me at age seven, standing beside the dead man.
On the back, the killer had written: She forgot. I did not.