Chapter 58
Roxy
"Did you prepare everything?" A voice cuts through the haze, and I try to move my head.
"For the thousandth time, yes." The irritation in the second voice is sharp.
When my vision clears, I see a fireplace and a brown leather couch. The room is relatively dark, gray curtains blocking the windows, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting because I know my temples would throb even worse if there were more light.
I study the men before me. I spent my childhood with one of them. The other still wears a mask. Where Henry stands at six feet, the other is nearly six foot five and leaner.
The masked man is dressed in black from head to toe. A hoodie covers his hair, but I catch glimpses of dark strands at the base of his neck.
I file away every detail. This bastard is going on my shit list right after I deal with the man now turning his attention to me.
"You're awake. Good." Henry approaches and offers me a glass of water.
My throat feels like sandpaper, so I don't refuse. At this point, I doubt he'd bother drugging me again.
I'm not restrained, which means I'll be able to claw his eyes out without any problems.
After I take a sip, the man behind Henry leans against the wall and watches me. His gaze is the kind that brands itself onto your skin, and despite myself, I feel the urge to shake off his stare.
"It was so obvious," I finally tell Henry.
But my mind is only now making the connections, because in all the loneliness that swallowed me after Mom's death, he was like a light at the end of the tunnel. Because that's what he wanted to be.
I watch him stand and walk without any trace of a limp.
"It was, but it's not your fault, amorino."
"Don't call me that." The words come through clenched teeth.
He stained that name the moment he first said it to me while his hands were still covered in my mother's blood.
But he's wrong. It is my fault because I didn't see the signs. The way he looked at Mom. The way he looks at me now, exactly the same.
"Why the limp?" I ask.
For years I watched him walk with a cane. He never slipped up once.
A smile stretches across his face.
"Psychology, Roxy. No one puts a man who walks with a cane at the top of their suspect list. No one believes a man with that kind of disability is capable of such acts."
That's when it clicks, why no witness ever gave valid testimony.
"You talked to the witnesses," I whisper.
His eyes gleam with pride at my statement, and he moves closer.
"A little trick I learned in college. Ever heard of Palmer and Loftus?"
He notices my silence and continues.
"Elizabeth Loftus demonstrated a fascinating phenomenon in psychology through her memory manipulation experiments.
In one of her most famous studies, she showed how simple word choice can rewrite memories.
Participants watched the same car accident, but received differently worded questions.
One group was asked about the speed when the cars 'smashed,' while another was asked about when they 'hit.
' The result, amorino? Those who heard the more violent verb, 'smashed,' developed false memories.
They swore they saw shattered glass at the accident scene even though it didn't exist in reality.
That's just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to memory manipulation.
There are dozens of experiments demonstrating how easily false memories can be implanted in the human mind.
The 'Lost in the Mall' experiment is another fascinating example, but that's a story for another time. "
I listen, and a cold shiver runs down my spine as I realize that every therapy session was subtle manipulation.
How many of my memories are truly mine? How many "truths" did he implant in my mind while I was vulnerable before him, sharing my nightmares?
Every moment of "healing" might have been just another piece in his twisted puzzle.
"When people weren't sure what they'd seen, they were easy to guide toward a version that suited me.
Including my neighbor. That woman never saw me taking out the trash at that hour, but the next morning, before the police came with questions, after a small chat with her, she could have sworn I'd slept at her house at that time. " And he dares to fucking laugh.
I close my eyes for a moment to absorb everything he's telling me.
"I know you have many questions, so I'll try to answer them because I want you to understand, Roxy." Henry paces agitatedly before me. "I assume Elena told you how she was adopted?"
I nod slightly. Yes, I knew she'd been adopted at age two. I try to look around, but mostly at the man behind Henry, who I swear hasn't even breathed since he positioned himself against that wall.
"From the moment I saw her, I believed we were soulmates.
She always baked lemon ricotta cookies because they were my favorite, always wanted to spend time with me, always told me she didn't know how she'd survive without me.
I know it scared her—what people would say since we grew up like siblings—but what we felt for each other was something pure. Something divine."
I listen and can't help but frown. Mom baked lemon ricotta cookies because they were her favorite, not his.
It was natural for her to want to spend time with the only person in that house close to her age.
As for the survival part, I'm sure she never said it the way he interpreted it.
Mom was always a rebel. Her parents often tried to extinguish her flames, and she probably found refuge in Henry, who, in his madness, accepted her as she was.
"Until she met that bastard. I wanted to tell her so many times that she didn't need to be with him, that I was all she could ever need, and I actually did... only for fear to take hold of her."
The masked man behind Henry looks at my uncle now, and there's something in his posture.
Does he seem tense?
"She told me I was confused, that it wasn't normal to feel what I felt for her. She told me my feelings were sick. How could she be so cruel, when all I did was love her?" Henry continues, and despite myself, my eyes well up thinking of Mom.
Heartbroken by Marco, with Henry's confession weighing on her, and a pregnancy that turned her world upside down.
Even I was a burden to her. She must have thought, at least for a second, that her life would be simpler if I weren't in the picture.
"And then you appeared, Roxy." Henry's voice pulls me back to the present. "I knew the Universe was giving me another chance at happiness through you. From the moment you were born, I realized Elena was just the road that was meant to lead me to my soulmate. To you."
If I didn't know what this man was capable of, I'd feel sorry for him. For a psychologist not to realize when he himself suffers from mental illness. Because just as I learned human anatomy to impress Dad, I also read about various psychological disorders to discuss with Henry.
I'm no expert, but when I look at him, I see delusional disorder tattooed all over his forehead.
"She loved you, you know?" I ask, and he knows I'm talking about her.
His eyes focus on my face, and I know he sees the tears.
"Despite everything, she loved you. She always spoke well of you. Always praised you. Always included you in her life even though anyone else would have kept you at a distance."
And now I understand why she didn't cut him off. Because she cared about him. Not the way he wanted, but she loved him like a brother and knew he had problems. I just don't think she realized or wanted to admit how severe they were. And that mistake brought about her end.
"She wanted to take you far away from me, Roxy. She wanted to separate us," he tells me softly.
I shake my head and draw air into my lungs, because he won't see a single tear fall.
"She wanted to be happy, Henry."
I think that even though Marco's world terrified her, she wanted love. She wanted a real family. She wanted me to grow up with him because deep down she knew Eric would never love me.
"You don't understand, Roxy. She was so selfish. But I didn't let her separate us, amorino."
In that second, I leap from the chair and shove him. My palm makes contact with his cheek, and even though I feel it tingling, I raise it again to hit him once more, but I'm lifted off my feet.
The masked man pulls me away from Henry, who looks at me with tears in his eyes.
"I understand you're upset," he says, slightly stammering. "But you have to understand she wouldn't have let me be with you."
I know she wouldn't have let him. She probably would have been capable of killing him with her own hands, and I think she tried. I think she tried to protect me, but she couldn't fight him off. At that point, Henry was in his twenties. Mom didn't stand a chance against him.
I try to elbow the idiot holding me so I can lunge at the man who destroyed my life twenty years ago, but I'm pinned against the wall by the masked man.
I feel his breath at the base of my neck.
"Control yourself," he murmurs in my ear, and I'm surprised by his tone.
Because it sounds like advice. Not a threat.
His body completely blocks mine, but I feel one of his hands guide my palm to his abdomen, and despite myself, my eyes widen when I feel the handle of a knife.
I look into his eyes and see no shock, no surprise.
Why the hell would he give me access to a weapon?
I don't wait and carefully pull the blade, which I secure somewhere under my shirt, near my hip.
"Let her go." I hear Henry's voice behind me.
"As you wish." The masked man's voice sounds amused. "But be careful, she's got claws."
Henry rubs the cheek I slapped.
"Did you feel any remorse?" I ask.
I need to know if, even for a second, he regretted what he did.
"Obviously. I'm not a monster, Roxy."
But his gaze says otherwise. Because his words have manipulated me from the first second, from the first moment I saw my mother’s body on that kitchen floor.