As the young woman slipped out of her car, she noticed that the front window was open, ever so slightly. Her roommate wasn't home yet; classes weren't over for another hour, and besides, she had closed that window that morning. She slowly slid her key into the lock and opened the door wide. Someone gasped. A boy, no more than nineteen or twenty, stood in the middle of the room. His face was concealed in shadow, but his body was clad in black jeans, a t-shirt, and a jean jacket.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The woman demanded.
"I... I don't know," the boy said in an Australian accent. Suddenly he clutched his head. He dropped to his hands and knees, his legs buckling beneath him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped onto the carpet. A sapphire necklace slid out of his breast pocket. The woman inhaled sharply.
"I'm calling the police."
The boy was panting, unable to escape the terror that gripped him like a vice. The police came and placed him in the back of their cruiser, but he didn't fight. When the police asked him questions about who he was, he gave them the same answer.
"My name is Graham Calloway. I have no idea why I was in that house. Before that, I don't remember."
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