Chapter 3

Blood dripped onto Roland's clothes, his eyes a turbulent mix of conflict and anguish.

"Wendy, you want everyone to know the truth, don't you? It's only because you can't speak that you couldn't tell us, right?"

The agony of the needles churning through my brain made my vision darken. I tried to shake my head, only to be struck by a surge of intense electricity. Blood mingled with saliva, trickling slowly from the corner of my mouth.

The scene shifted once more.

I was kneeling in a pool of blood, trembling as I pressed desperately against the gushing wounds on Wyatt and Margie. Warm, thick blood seeped through my fingers while a bloodstained knife lay beside me.

Their pupils were dilated, their lips moving soundlessly as they tried to speak. I tore strips from my clothes, sobbing as I attempted to bandage them. But my hands found only slippery, torn flesh and organs.

The onlookers whispered among themselves.

"If she tried so desperately to save them, how could she be the killer?" someone said poignantly.

Another person sneered in rebuttal, "What a convincing act! Who's to say she wasn't the one who stabbed them in the first place?"

"She used to be a doctor. Maybe she grabbed the knife to perform emergency first aid," someone else added.

But the objection came swiftly. "If she were a doctor, why couldn't she save them? It was clearly just an act."

Roland's eyes widened with fury and anguish. He fell to his knees, trembling as he reached out to touch the image of Wyatt and Margie's lifeless bodies. But his fingers passed right through the scene, his gaze churning with grief and despair.

In the memory, Wyatt and Margie clutched a piece of paper.

My bloodstained hands trembled as I took it. After a hurried glance, I tearfully swallowed the paper whole.

Watching the scene unfold, Roland shuddered violently. "W-Why won't you just tell me the truth? I really regret ever being with you. If not for that, my parents would still be alive!"

Trisha gripped Roland's arm tightly, whispering in his ear. "Roland, the truth is right before us. We can't let Wyatt and Margie die in vain. Wendy's return to the crime scene could only mean one thing—she intended to destroy evidence.

"That piece of paper is definitely suspicious. If they knew their deaths could save lives, they'd find comfort—even in the afterlife."

Roland wiped away his tears with a trembling hand, then pressed the needles once more against my bloodied temples. My convulsing body suddenly went rigid, my pupils dilating.

The humming of the Memory Decryptor came to an abrupt halt.

Trisha watched me convulsing with cold detachment. She calmly gripped Roland's sleeve. "Her pain threshold has been reached. We must intensify the pressure to break through the memory block."

With that, she took Roland's trembling hand and forced the current setting to its maximum. "It's still not enough. Roland, think—what else can we do to raise Wendy's pain threshold? Do it for the sake of the other victims!"

Roland's expression darkened, his gaze fixed on my motionless form. Veins bulged across his hand as he clenched the lighter.

He staggered closer to my festering wounds and said hoarsely, "Wendy, I'm sorry. For the sake of preventing others from being hurt, I have no choice but to do this to you. If you must blame anyone, blame yourself for refusing to tell the truth."

The flames seared my wounds. Amidst the excruciating pain, I convulsed and thrashed, yet only silent screams tore from me.

The Memory Decryptor flickered back to life, revealing a new scene.

In the playback, twisting flames engulfed my parents' house, beams crashing down in a roaring collapse.

I was curled in a corner, watching helplessly as my parents—Jordan Crane and Helen Carroll—were consumed by the fire. I reached out futilely through the scorching air, grasping nothing but swirling ashes.