“What’s that?” he barks from the side. “Did he fucking chain you with that?”

  This time, I’m the one denying a response.

  “Like a fucking dog he treats you,” Christopher adds. “Sick. We’ll get that off right when we get to the house.”

  The house. His house? Another mansion for me to be locked up in?

  “We won’t be able to,” I utter, my eyes locked on the road ahead. “It has a lock. You’ll need the key.”

  He lets out an angry growl while slowing down the car, turning right on to a barely visible path that seemingly leads to nowhere. It’s so dark out here that I don’t notice the little hut until he parks right in front of it. There’s no front light, no gate, nothing that suggests anyone has been here recently.

  He jumps out of the car, hurrying to the other side while I try to work the door. I don’t get it to open, forced to wait for him to open it for me from the outside.

  “Come,” he says, offering me his hand in a seemingly sweet gesture to help me get out of the car.

  I oblige, moving slowly as I follow him, my eyes scouring our surroundings. But there’s simply nothing to see. Nothing but darkness.

  “Why are we here?” I ask, my lips trembling. “Why are you scaring me like this?”

  “Oh sweety, no need to fear,” he says, trying to wrap his arm around me. “We won’t stay here long, just for a while, get some rest, get reacquainted—and then we’ll move on.”

  “To where?”

  He sighs, and even in the dark, I can see how he rolls his eyes at me.

  “Enough with the questions, Liliane. Just... come.”

  I try to evade his touch, but he’s faster and stronger than me, closing his hand around my upper arm before I manage to get out of his reach.

  “No!” I shriek, astonished at the volume of my own voice as it travels across the empty valley.

  I try to fight him, twisting and turning, my feet raking through the muddy ground when he drags me with him, the grip on my arm so tight that I’m sure it’ll leave bruises.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough of this!” he bellows, reaching at the side of his belt with the other hand.

  My horrified gaze is met with the barrel of a gun at the same time Christopher’s face gets lit up by a source coming from behind my back.

  His eyes widen with dreadful realization as he catches sight of the car that rolls up behind me. I can hear the tires moving through the mud before I can see it, blinded by its headlights as I turn around over my shoulder.

  Terror and relief blend in a dizzying solution, making me feel sick to my stomach, while car doors are being slammed, deep voices thundering through the darkness while I sink down to my knees right as his grip around my upper arm is loosened.

  A shot is fired, drowning out every other sound, every voice that cries out through the night. But I don’t know where the bullet travels.

  All I see is him.

  Jayson catches me before I hit the ground, wrapping his strong arms around me with fierce protection as he gathers me up, shielding me with his own body while keeping me safe. The turmoil that his appearance caused is ferocious but short-lived, only lasting a few seconds until silence cloaks us like a protective blanket.

  I can hear voices in the background, no more yelling, but uttering hurried words as people move around us. It’s nothing but white noise, bustle on the sidelines while we retreat inside a glass dome, right in the middle of it all, but still alone with each other.

  Jayson’s face is right above mine, a warm smile adorning his handsome face as he wipes away a strand of hair that’s sticking to my face.

  “How...,” I utter. “How did you find me?”

  The smile on his face widens as he lets out a little chuckle. He reaches down to my neck, hooking his finger through the little ring on my collar.

  “Ever heard of GPS?” he whispers.

  My hand reaches up to his, following the outline of the metal around my neck. “This?”

  He nods, leaning down to plant a kiss on my forehead.

  “I told you it was a very special gift.”

  Epilogue 1

  J

  Petal was thirteen years old when she let me stare into her abyss.

  I never asked for it, nor did I force it on her.

  But I knew I could help her.

  I knew I had to help her as soon as I heard her story. Even at such a young age, she’d gained notoriety for something so cruel that it’s unimaginable for most people, which is exactly why the chatter that surrounded her was so attractive to them.

  Everyone knew her as the girl who killed her mother.

  It didn’t matter whether it was true. It didn’t matter if it was a twist, added to make a horrible situation even more terrible for those involved.

  All that mattered was that she believed it herself.

  And how could they forget if she couldn’t?

  It was the first and last time I ever gave credit to Robert, her father. Because he was the only one who didn’t tell the story the way everyone else did. He didn’t think his daughter had killed his wife. He knew that it was an accident, something that happened due to a series of dark incidents, and his daughter was just a small speck in all of it.

  His wife was unfaithful, and she had been for years. Petal knew about it, but her father didn’t.

  It was the very first thing she said when she sat down before me. I had nothing but rumors going for me back then. I was a young college student who had just moved to the area. But I already knew about my gift, because I had used it before, albeit never with this kind of precision. My psychology professor was the one who first noticed, and if he hadn’t spread the word about his observations with me, who knows if things would have ever developed the way they did.

  Robert brought her to me, reluctant, but hopeful. We knew there was a risk, but to him, nothing could be worse than the state his daughter had been in ever since her mother’s death. She wasn’t simply depressed. She was barely alive. There was no room for her to mourn her mother’s death because she was tortured with guilt, numbing everything she was.

  “Make her forget that night,” he pleaded. “Give me my daughter back.”

  He meant it that day. All he wanted was for her to heal.

  And I made that happen.

  I sat down with Petal, alone, relying only on my gift for hypnosis in lieu of sedative drugs that would later enable me to control a person’s mind to a better degree. She looked so small, so fragile—and so broken by pain that I could feel it stabbing against my own heart just by looking at her.

  But she trusted me. For whatever reason, she trusted me. And she told me everything.

  She told me about the affair her mother had been having for years. She told me how she would see her sneak out at night, and how she would later follow her on her bike, hiding in the bushes as she watched her mother betray her family. Her heart curled to a ball of pain every time it happened, not because she felt sorry for her father, but because she felt betrayed and left out herself. She never had a good relationship with her strict father, relying on her mother’s love to make up for his austere hand at home.

  But her mother let her down. She broke free from her bleak life and a joyless marriage by seeking the company of another man, leaving her daughter behind. Petal hated her for that.

  For months and years, she watched her mother lie, leaving the house more frequently and for longer times, while her father remained oblivious, too busy with his shop and passing out from too many beers each night. Petal spent most of her time at her friend Malia’s house, playing house with a family that was less broken than hers.

  Until one day, she could no longer bear to carry her mother’s secret in silence. She wanted to confront her.

  She wanted to scare the living shit out of her mother, hoping it would bring her to her senses and return to a family that was falling apart.

  It was that desire for confrontation that got her mother killed. Petal wanted to be seen by her in a moment when she cast all thoughts about her daughter aside. She wanted her mother to see the accusing look on her face as she was on her way to the lover who appeared to mean more to her than her own family.

  All Petal did was to stand at the side of the road, taking a step forward to make sure she was seen, casting her mother a sinister look as tears of desperation streamed down her face.

  Her mother saw her. Her eyes were glued to her daughter, while her foot remained firm on the gas. She drove without slowing down, without looking ahead—and right into another car that hit her from the side as she passed a red light, rolled right onto a crossing and traffic that did not expect her.

  She died right before Petal’s eyes.

  And as the memory poured out of her, I gathered it all up, hypnotizing her deeper and deeper, almost speaking in a mantra as I held her in my arms, catching her tears and soaking up her pain. Her trauma did part of the job for me, making it almost too easy to erase the horrid images and the connected guilt from her mind.

  But more things had to vanish for her to live through this. Christopher is right when he says that she was never the same after. She didn’t only forget about her mother, but about him, too. About the friendship they shared, and the love that was about to blossom between two teenagers.

  He was pushed into the dark, just like many other people she loved back then. But others found their way back in, he never really did. His hate for me was born during that time, especially when he saw how close it had brought her to me. She never remembered our session, but she felt comfortable with me, safe and happy.

  There was a palpable connection ever since that day we sat in a close embrace, her tears drenching my shirt as she allowed me to help her.

  I stayed in contact with her as much as I could, but Christopher soon found help in her father when it came to pushing me aside. Both of them shared a deep running distrust and fear of the things I was capable of.

  Others admired me for it.

  Once word got out that I had saved ‘the girl who killed her mother’ from a lifelong trauma, more and more people showed up at my door, asking for me to do the same to them or a loved one.

  That’s how it started. All thanks to her.

  And I couldn’t even thank her for it, nor be the friend and guardian that I wanted to be for her.

  I had to watch my Petal from afar.

  Until the day she would finally become mine.

  ***

  No memory is lost forever. I know how to revive them just as much as I know how to delete them. And I have given her back everything she asked me for.

  But this memory is one I will take to the grave.

  Petal was smart enough to never probe for it, but even if she did, I wouldn’t let her go through that anguish of her mother’s tragic death again. I saw the abyss once, and I helped her to climb out of it. I didn’t do that to throw her back in just because honesty demands it.

  Does that mean our marriage will be based on a secret? A dark lie that could change everything if it ever came to light?

  Maybe.

  But I think it can be justified.

  As long as it remains to be the only one.

  Epilogue 2

  Petal

  I turn the ring around my finger, watching as the sun clashes with the flawless round diamond, sending tiny colorful sparks as it dances in the bright light. A warm breeze kisses the salty skin on my cheeks, carrying the taste of the ocean all the way up here to the balcony of our suite.

  I’m wearing nothing but a soft bathrobe, deceiving with its impeccably white color. It speaks of innocence while it covers the fresh bruises that are growing on the throbbing skin of my behind. I’m still trembling, walking on weak legs, my hands shaking as I bring the glass of water up to my lips. I still feel him inside of me, stretching my core while the vibrating plug in my ass tormented me, on the brink of coming for so long that the need for release became agonizing.

  Fiery streaks are blazing along my ass cheeks and my upper thighs, where the cane bit my skin. I deserved and welcomed every single one of them, thanking him for each blow that made me cry out in tears. They were always a blend of opposing emotions. Anguish, desperation, gratitude, appreciation. They came hand in hand, dancing in a circle, with each having its moment of fame as it passed the front of the stage.

  I still question myself in these moments. I still wonder who this person is. The girl who lets him do these things to her, who wants him to do these things to her.

  The girl who loves him for it.

  The tears that are streaming down my face right now are not born out of pain or desolation. It’s unbridled bliss that waters my face and paints my expression. A smile, so genuine and honest, that I’m sure it must look silly to the ignorant eye.

  My father would never approve of this. Any of this.

  He will never approve of him.

  And I have to be okay with that.

  When the dust had settled after my alleged rescue and the detention of Christopher, whose trial is still ongoing to this day, the first person who was called to be informed of my return was my father. I had no image of him in my mind when I was told that he’d be coming to pick me up, realizing that he had been erased, just like everything and everyone else.

  I sat at the station, wrapped in a redundant blanket, confused and scared as I waited for my father. They were still interrogating both Christopher and Jayson in different rooms, while I was placed in the waiting room, replaying the last few hours, days, and weeks before my eyes. I lived through every moment, every breath I took since I woke up in that dark basement room, connecting images and hints, producing memories and matching them to the things I’d learned about myself and my past ever since.

  When I saw the man walking down the hallway, approaching me with wide and hurried steps, a strained expression masking his middle-aged face when he saw me, I realized two things at once.

  I knew that man was my father. And I knew that he was the tall one among the three men I saw in my vision, the one who towered above all others and who made me slouch with unease as I felt his stern gaze on me. That intimidating effect is still there, even as I don’t recall the incidents that have formed my attitude toward him over the years.

  It was stiff and awkward between us, and even now—almost a year later—it still is. I don’t know if much would change if I choose to gain access to more of the memories that have made me the person who decided to turn her mind into a blank canvas. I was careful to decide which parts of myself I wanted to remember.

  The video Malia had shown me was only a small sequence of a longer monologue that we recorded before I underwent the procedure that would turn me into his Petal. I don’t remember anything about the procedure itself, but I remember the days leading up to it. I remember the conversations we had, Jayson and I, Malia and I, and the three of us together. I can’t recall the details of it, the specific concerns each of us addressed respectively, but I see us sitting together, I see the worry on Malia’s face and I hear her pleading as she begged me to reconsider.

  But I didn’t.

  Yet she was the first memory I asked to regain. Her pain was too much to bear and I hated the thought of her being bereft of her best friend. Jayson proved to be a master at his art. He held my hand, keeping my sorrows at bay as we slowly uncovered the friendship that Malia and I share piece by piece. She was there with me, smiling in a way I’d never seen her smile inside the mansion.

  And she’s here with us now, too. She was the only I told about our little plan, and the only one who came here with us, because I wanted her to be our witness. I haven’t seen her since the ceremony last night, and when I called her room this morning, it seemed that she was still sleeping, most likely still knocked out from the champagne we shared last night. She’s a lightweight and probably suffering from a hangover much stronger than mine. I hope it isn’t too bad. I plan to call her again in a few minutes. Just to make sure.

  My smile widens when Jayson joins me on the balcony, wearing a robe just like mine, and wraps his arms around me as he plants a loving kiss on my cheek.

  “Good morning, wife.”

  “Good morning, husband.”

  He steps next to me, keeping his arm around my shoulders as he squeezes me, pulling me closer.

  “We did it,” I say in a low voice, still in disbelief. “We got married. We eloped!”

  He chuckles. “Eloping in Atlantic City. Crazy enough for you?”

  “Just right,” I reply, full of confidence that this was the perfect choice. For myself, for us.

  All I ever wanted was to break out from the things that were expected from me, especially from my father. He holds a claim over me that is beyond any healthy father-daughter relationship, and the only man he ever wanted to share me with turned out to be a killer. Possibly. The jury is still out on that verdict. I don’t know what to believe, but the simple truth is, that there has been no new victim associated with the Bridgewater murderer for a year now, ever since Christopher was locked away and tied to the latest victim. Jayson had a legal contract that—supported by my statement—got him out of a tight spot when my father accused him of kidnapping me.

  “You don’t regret not telling him?” Jayson asks, still holding me in a warm and secure embrace.

  I shake my head. “I will tell him eventually, but I didn’t want him to be a part of this. He still feels like a stranger to me, and not the good kind.”

  “You know those memories aren’t lost,” Jayson argues. “I could always—”

  “I know,” I cut him off. “Thank you. But I don’t lack those memories. I wanted them gone for a reason.”

  I look up at him, meeting his loving gaze, the sun forcing him to squint as he smiles at me.

  “We’ll make new ones,” I tell him. “You and me.”

  “We will,” he promises. “And so will you and your father.”

  I sigh. “Why do you insist on that? Weren’t you the one who made sure I got away from him?”