Chapter 51 Let Go Of The Guilt
Let Go Of The Guilt
Emily's Search History: Specialists for complex PTSD and homicide-related trauma in London
Emily
A blood-curdling scream shatters the silence of the night.
I bolt upright.
Eli rocks back and forth on the bed, his head clutched in his hands.
He’s had nightmares every night since the discovery of Jenny’s death. They’re getting worse—likely a result of the EMDR and what it’s dragging to the surface. I hate how much pain he’s in. But if we don’t do this, we’ll never know what happened to her. We may never fully understand.
“Eli,” I murmur, stepping into the room.
“I killed her,” he mutters. Then, louder, “I killed her.”
After our last session, that truth felt inevitable. And yet, hearing him say it sends shockwaves through my core.
The rational part of me screams to run. But the part that can’t stand his pain forces me to stay.
“Eli,” I try again.
“It’s my fault” he whispers—not to me, but to himself. “I couldn’t—”
He breaks off, sobbing in that fragile space between sleep and waking.
I place a tentative hand on his arm.
He jolts. His eyes fly open, locking onto mine.
Tears spill.
“You’re okay,” I whisper.
“He hurt her,” he cries.
Wait.
He?
“Who hurt her?” I ask, confusion knitting my eyebrows.
“My dad,” he chokes out, broken.
“Your dad hurt Jenny?”
His head moves jerkily into a nod, his breaths laboured.
“But you said it was your fault?”
His face crumples. “I think I killed Jenny.”
“You’re not making sense,” I say, rubbing his back.
He folds in on himself. “You’re going to leave me.” His head falls to my lap, and I stroke his hair while he cries.
I thought we were going to discover that he’d killed Jenny—and maybe his mum too—but now I’m left with more questions.
Did his dad kill Jenny or did he? Why is it his fault?
Eli cries himself to sleep, and when he wakes again, he’s calmer.
We’re sitting against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder.
I don’t dare break the fragile silence.
Thankfully, he does.
“My dad killed Jenny in front of me.”
I twist my head to look him in the eyes. “You remember what happened?”
He shrugs, the movement slow. “Pieces of it. He slit her throat. There was so much blood. I was holding her in my arms, but she was already dead.”
My chest cracks open at his words. The fragments of his ramblings start to fall together.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him, knowing he needs to hear the words.
He shakes his head, forlorn. “I didn’t get there in time. I couldn’t make myself move, and he hurt her because of it.”
I climb into his lap, straddling his thighs and cupping his tear-stained cheeks so he’s forced to look at me. “Remember what I said—the guilt is a response to your trauma, but it’s not your responsibility. Your father is the only one who’s accountable for Jenny’s death.”
The article I read a few days ago ways on my mind. I don’t want to make things worse for him, but at the same time, I can’t stand the idea of him not knowing.
“Eli,” I take a deep breath, “there’s something else I think you should know.”
He stills, frozen beneath me.
Okay, here goes.
“I found a news article.” I debate my words. “There was another body found with Jenny’s under your old house.”
His hands reach out to grasp my hips. “My mums?” he asks, his voice cracking, and yet, it’s not a question of surprise, but of resignation.
“You knew?”
His lip trembles, tears glistening in his eyes. “I think he killed her too.”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, resting my head against his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know exactly what happened with Jenny—not completely. Eli may never recover every piece of that night. But the fact that it was traumatic for him tells me everything I need to know.
The guilt. The remorse. They live inside him. He won’t be whole again until he deals with them.
Eli
The feeling inside me is too large to name.
It swells in my chest, turning every breath into a task.
My hands curl and uncurl at my sides, searching for something solid.
A hollow chill creeps beneath my skin, sharp and unforgiving.
I want to fold in on myself. Hide my face.
Press my palms to my eyes and make the world stop, even if only for a second.
My mind is broken.
It isn’t just one emotion. It’s all of them—fear, grief, love, guilt—tangled together until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.
I can’t—I can’t fucking think.
Every time Jenny crosses my mind, I can’t breathe.
I’ve spent years chasing a ghost—never realising how literal that was.
What’s worse—worse than the guilt eating me alive—is the fear that I’m pushing my angel away in the process.
She’s helped me uncover fragments. Enough to know it was me. That I killed the girl I loved. But in doing so, I’ve lost myself in the past. I can’t focus on her. I’m trapped in what was, and I don’t know how to escape it.
“Hey.”
Emily’s voice pulls my head up. She’s standing in the doorway.
“Hi,” I murmur.
“How are you doing?”
I shrug. “I don’t know how to let go of the guilt.”
Emily steps into the room, closing the door behind her. She crosses to me slowly and, when I don’t stop her, sits beside me. Her hands are warm as she takes mine, her thumbs brushing over my knuckles.
“You don’t need to feel guilt. You didn’t kill her.” She draws a breath. “That said, I think you need to go back to therapy. Real therapy. Not our lunchtime appointments. And not with me. We’ll find you another specialist.”
I shake my head, opening my mouth to argue, but she cuts in.
“No. I’m serious. I can’t be your therapist anymore. You need real help—from someone outside of us.”
The thought of opening myself up to someone else fills me with dread. But if I want her to keep choosing me, I have to do this.
I’m not okay. Not yet. But Emily isn’t leaving. That’s all I need.
Graham appears as if summoned, leaping gracefully onto the bed. He circles once, then settles between us.
Emily and Graham.
If I have them, I’m complete.