Chapter 111: Amnesia

Arthur

Evelyn's composure shattered completely.

"You bitch!" She lunged at my mother with a fury that took both officers by surprise, her hands reaching for Irene's throat before they could pull her back. "You promised me! You said I'd never have to worry about money again! You said—"

"Mrs. Grey." Detective Clark's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "That's enough."

"She's lying!" Evelyn was sobbing now, all pretense of control gone. "She planned everything! The wine, Matthias, all of it! She told me exactly what to do, exactly how to—"

"Prove it," my mother said again, and there was something almost satisfied in her voice. "Show them proof, Evelyn. Show them anything that connects me to your pathetic little scheme."

Evelyn's face crumpled. "The calls—we talked on the phone—"

"About your daughter," my mother said smoothly. "About how difficult it must be to reconnect after so many years. I offered sympathy. Advice. Nothing more."

Detective Clark looked between them, her expression unreadable. Then she turned to the officers. "Take Mrs. Gray back to the guest room. We'll continue this conversation downtown."

As they led Evelyn away—still sobbing, still protesting—Detective Clark turned to my mother.

"Mrs. Winston, I'm going to need you to stay available for further questioning."

"Of course." My mother stood, smoothing her dress with hands that were perfectly steady. "Though I think you'll find that Mrs. Grey's allegations are nothing more than the desperate fabrications of a woman trying to avoid responsibility for her own actions."

She looked at me then, and something flickered in her eyes—triumph, maybe, or satisfaction. "Arthur, I'm sorry you had to witness this unpleasantness. I hope Cecilia recovers quickly."

The words were perfect. Concerned. Maternal.

And completely empty.

"Get out," I said quietly.

"Arthur—"

"Get out of my house." My voice was still quiet, but something in it made even Detective Chen take a step back. "Now."

My mother's expression hardened. "You can't possibly believe—"

"I don't know what I believe yet," I said. "But I know I don't want you here. So get out, and don't come back until you're ready to tell the truth."

For a moment, I thought she might argue. But then she simply nodded, collected her bag, and walked out with her head high and her shoulders straight.

The sound of the front door closing behind her echoed through the house.

Detective Clark cleared her throat. "Mr. Winston, I understand this is difficult, but without concrete evidence—"

"I know." I turned away from where my mother had been standing. "You can't charge her. Not yet."

"We'll keep investigating. Phone records, financial transactions, any communication between Mrs. Winston and Mrs. Grey. If there's proof, we'll find it."

"Thank you, Detective."

She nodded and moved toward the door, then paused. "Mr. Winston? For what it's worth—I've been doing this job for twenty years. I've learned to recognize certain patterns. And your mother..." She trailed off, choosing her words carefully. "Let's just say I'll be looking very closely at those phone records."

After she left, I stood alone in the library for a long moment, trying to process everything that had just happened.

My mother.

The woman who'd raised me, who'd taught me about duty and responsibility and maintaining the family name—had she really orchestrated this? Had she really been willing to let Ceci be assaulted just to... what? Drive us apart? Protect the Winston reputation?

I didn't want to believe it. But I couldn't quite convince myself it wasn't true.

Finally, I made my way back upstairs.

The bedroom was dark except for the soft glow of the lamp on the nightstand. Ceci was still asleep, her face peaceful in a way that made my chest ache. The IV drip continued its steady rhythm, each drop carrying away the poison that Evelyn—and possibly my mother—had put in her system.

I pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking her hand in mine.

Her fingers twitched in mine, and I saw her eyelids flutter.

"Arthur," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and medication. "Arthur..."

"I'm here, baby." I stood and leaned over her, brushing her hair back from her face. "I'm right here."

Her eyes opened slightly, unfocused and glassy, but searching for me.

"Don't leave," she whispered.

"Never." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

She settled back into sleep with a small sigh, and I returned to my chair, still holding her hand.

Cecilia

When I woke up, a devastatingly handsome man was only a few feet away from me.

He was watching me with an intensity that would have been unsettling if it had been anyone else, his eyes tracking every movement, every breath, like he was afraid I might disappear if he looked away.

I shifted slightly, testing my body, and his eyes snapped fully open.

"Ceci." His voice was hoarse, like he'd been awake for hours. "How do you feel?"

I blinked at him, trying to focus. My head felt stuffed with cotton, and my mouth was dry, and everything seemed slightly tilted.

"You're..." I frowned, trying to form the words. "You're calling me?"

Something flickered across his face—concern, fear, something else I couldn't quite name.

"Yes, I'm calling you." He sat up quickly, his hand coming to cup my face. "Ceci, do you know where you are?"

"I'm..." I looked around the room, recognition coming slowly, like wading through fog. "Home? Black Peak?"

"Good. That's good." But he didn't look relieved. If anything, he looked more worried. "Do you know who I am?"

The question struck me as odd. Of course I knew who he was.

I could see him right in front of me—his face was handsome as a god’s, his deep eyes brimming with tender warmth like spring water.

"You're..." I reached up with one hand, my fingers tracing the familiar contours of his face.