Chapter 47 Let Me Help You
Let Me Help You
Eli's Search History: How to know if you are a murderer if you have no memory of the event
Emily
Eli’s fingers dig into my thighs as he sobs, his forehead pressed to my stomach.
My heart fractures.
I stroke his hair, uncertain on what I’m supposed to do now.
“Sooo… are we killing him or not?”
I whip my head toward Nate, mouth falling open in shock.
Carina elbows him hard.
“Why would you even suggest that?” I gasp, my fingers tightening in the hair at Eli’s nape.
Nate smiles without teeth, eyes wide—a picture of feigned innocence. “Who said that?” He looks around theatrically.
“We’re not hurting him,” I murmur.
“Of course not,” Carina says gently, rubbing my arm. “But what do you want to do about him?”
I don’t know.
It’s hard to believe the broken man clinging to me could have done something so heinous. But I also know what he’s capable of. I’ve seen it.
I crouch to Eli’s level, coaxing him to meet my gaze.
“Hey,” I whisper, taking his hands in mine.
It takes a moment, but his eyes finally focus. He draws in a shaky breath. “Angel.”
“What did you mean?”
He blinks. “What?”
“You said, I think I did something bad. What bad thing do you think you did?”
He shakes his head. “Jenny’s dead,” he mutters, the words barely audible. “Jenny’s dead. And you were going to leave me.”
“I’m not—”
His grip tightens, digging painfully into my hands. “You were. You were going to run from me.”
“Eli, you’re hurting me.”
He releases me as if I’ve burned him.
“What happened to Jenny?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He surges to his feet and begins to pace.
A flash of metal catches my eye in Nate’s hand, but he doesn’t move. I glare at him in warning.
“I don’t remember,” Eli says, voice breaking.
“There are gaps. I don’t know. I don’t know!
” He holds his head in his hands. “I loved her. She was perfect—not as perfect as my angel, but… I just wanted her to love me. She didn’t even see me.
I don’t remember. I don’t—” His gaze finds mine, his face saying what his voice can’t. “Why don’t I remember?”
I move toward him slowly. “I think you might have repressed trauma. Would you let me help you?”
“Help me?”
“We can work together to uncover the memories. That way, you can get some closure.”
His head bobs jerkily. “Okay.”
I turn to Nate and Carina with a shaky smile. “You should go.”
Carina frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“He needs to feel safe for this to work.”
“We’ll wait in the kitchen,” she says. “But I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
I sigh, conceding, and thank them before focusing back on Eli as they head downstairs.
“I want to try something called EMDR,” I tell him softly. “It helps the brain process traumatic memories by focusing on movement while revisiting the experience. But I don’t know if you’re in the right headspace yet.”
He clutches his head, shaking it vigorously. “Please, Angel. I can’t—I need to—Please.”
“Shh,” I soothe, guiding him onto the bed. “Okay. We’ll start now. But it may take a few sessions, depending on how buried the memory is.”
He nods, his breaths deep but uneven.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Close your eyes for me. Just breathe—in and out. Slow. Steady.”
Eli follows, his shoulders rising and falling beneath my hands.
“Good. That’s it. Now tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” I say softly. “Just try to focus. What’s there right now?”
“Scared. Confused.”
“That makes sense.” I keep my voice gentle. “Where do you think that fear comes from?”
“I’m missing something,” he whispers. “Like a puzzle piece I can’t find.”
My chest tightens. “What do you think is missing?”
“I’m not sure. But it’s the key.”
“And the confusion?” I ask. “Is it connected?”
Faintly, he tells me, “Yeah. It’s the same thing.”
“Why do you think they’re linked?”
“Because I’m worried I did something.”
“When?” I prompt.
“When Jenny went missing.” His breath hitches. “I think I’m missing something from that night.”
“What do you remember about that night?”
“I don’t know,” he says helplessly.
I shift closer. “When you think about Jenny being dead, what do you feel in your body?”
His hands curl into the sheets. His chest tightens. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t—I can’t—”
“That’s enough for today,” I say quickly, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “You’ve done really well. You need to rest now.”
I exhale into the sofa cushion, my head falling back.
The fabric beside me dips and I turn to see Nate.
“How are you holding up?” he asks, smiling sadly.
My shoulders rise and fall. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Did you find out anything from him?”
I groan in frustration. “Not really. It’s too soon. EMDR isn’t some miracle cure for trauma.”
“Sounds like a type of music.” Nate starts pretending to be a drum-and-bass DJ—a terrible one. I hit him.
He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. What is EMDR?”
“Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing Therapy.” I’ve seen patients recover repressed memories with it, and it’s usually faster than most other forms of therapy. “It uses movement or sound to ground the patient while we talk through their memories.”
I search for a simpler way to explain it. “I guess it’s a bit like mindfulness. You focus on the sensations in your body—what you hear, see, feel. That process can cue up memories that are locked away.”
It’s a process—one that takes work—but it’s also one of the least stressful methods. And whatever is eating at Eli? It’s definitely stressful.
“So,” Nate says, leaning back, “you can’t just wiggle your fingers and tell him to think happy thoughts?”
I might kill him.