Chapter 207: Who's Really Innocent?
Nate’s past sounded like a legend.
A doctorate in clinical psychology from the Enigma Institute, specializing in PTSD and Dissociative identity disorder. At only twenty-eight he'd already worked as both a clinical psychologist and psychiatrist, moonlighting as a university psychology lecturer on the side.
Seven years ago, a family tragedy struck. He resigned from everything and flew overseas to join Doctors Without Borders as a psychological consultant in war zones.
Yes, he was another prodigy. Started university at twelve, earned his doctorate at eighteen, with an almost obsessive drive to understand human nature.
It was precisely because of this obsession that Sophia and Nate had crossed paths for the first time.
She became his new research case. But before he could finish studying her, an accident left him emotionally shattered. He abandoned all his honors and achievements at home to join Doctors Without Borders.
Hearing Sophia's question, Nate's expression barely shifted. He smiled faintly. "After witnessing so much life and death in war zones, I rarely dream anymore."
Sophia propped her chin on her hand, staring him down as if trying to read the secrets buried in his heart.
Soon enough, she reached her conclusion. "You're lying."
Nate couldn't refute it. He took a tactical sip of coffee.
He had to admit—someone like Sophia, who'd navigated countless social circles since childhood, dealing with all kinds of people, whose mind was sharp and composure unshakeable—her perceptiveness was formidable.
Psychologists like him studied microexpressions and body language through academic theory.
Sophia didn't need any of that. Pure experience.
Michael gave Nate a measured look before speaking gently. "You keep saying Sophia has psychological trauma, but haven't you been tormented by nightmares for seven years yourself?"
Nate let out a self-deprecating laugh. The glare on his lenses hid the loneliness in his eyes, but couldn't mask the hollowness in his voice:
"I started teaching myself psychology at six, got into Enigma Institute at twelve, doctorate at eighteen. Worked as a doctor, as a lecturer... but I never noticed the signs. She was right there beside me..."
His voice broke before he could finish, eyes rimming red.
Sophia pressed her lips together and glanced innocently at Michael, as if asking whether she'd said too much again.
She hadn't expected Nate to cry. In her understanding, life and death were just natural events.
Everyone left this world differently.
Maybe it was because she'd nearly died at John's hands multiple times as a child—she didn't see "death" as something particularly heavy.
Even if it happened to family, she probably wouldn't feel as devastated as Nate did now.
Michael patted Sophia's shoulder, silently telling her not to overthink it. He knew emotional responses like this were hard for her to grasp.
He pulled out some tissues and handed them to Nate, his tone soothing. "It's been seven years. You need to learn to forgive yourself."
Nate kept his head down, accepting the tissues and wiping his eyes before adjusting his glasses.
When he looked up again, he'd recovered his usual composure, smiling faintly. "The healer who can't heal himself. Sorry you had to see that."
Sophia paused, then her red lips curved upward. "Guess that makes us fellow patients. Want to make it a competition? See who recovers first?"
Nate couldn't help but laugh. "Since when do you play such boring games?"
The games she used to play with John were all about who'd die first.
John would take her cliff-diving in cars; she'd take John sunbathing by the ocean.
"Mind your own business." Sophia raised an eyebrow, radiating confidence. "Loser has to go skydiving. You in or not?"
"Deal."
Nate agreed readily. Win or lose, as long as one of them recovered, it would be a good thing.
The corridor in the detention center seemed endless. Mary's three-inch heels clicked against the floor, each step echoing eerily through the empty hallway.
She instinctively touched her pearl earrings, seeking some sense of security.
These studs were a birthday gift from Sophia last year. Remembering she was here for her daughter gave her courage.
"You have half an hour," the female guard said, pulling open the iron door with a teeth-grinding metallic screech.
When Maggie was led in, Mary almost didn't recognize her.
The elegant, refined powerhouse from the news photos now had graying temples, her prison uniform collar revealing a protruding collarbone.
"Mrs. Johnson." Maggie sat upright in the plastic chair, her wrist shackles clanking. "I figured you'd come."
Mary's nails dug into her palms, her voice like ice water. "I thought I'd hate you. But seeing you like this, I just feel sorry for you."
Maggie's mouth twitched. The visiting room's overhead light cast deep shadows in her eye sockets, making that expression look like some bizarre smile.
"How's your daughter doing?" Maggie asked suddenly.
"You don't get to mention her." Mary clenched her fists, anger flickering in her eyes, though she kept herself controlled. "Why did you do it? Whatever grudge you had with the Smith family—my Sophia was innocent!"
Maggie's gaze drifted toward the high window, where a sliver of sunlight leaked through. "Who's really innocent, though?"
Mary's brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Maggie pulled her gaze back to Mary, lips curling in something that wasn't quite a smile. She didn't answer the question.
Instead, she said: "Your daughter and I? We got along just fine."
"Impossible!" Mary snapped reflexively, slamming her hand on the table. "You made her grow up in the Smith family, made her suffer through all that trauma for no reason, and you dare say you got along?"
The statement was an insult.
Maggie's gaze didn't waver. Those sunken eyes held an unsettling conviction. "You can ask your daughter yourself. I turned myself in. Whatever was between us—it's settled now."
Mary's fists clenched tighter, nails biting into her palms.
She should hate Maggie. Hate her for swapping her daughter, for subjecting her to seventeen years of suffering, for causing her psychological scars.
But Maggie claimed whatever was between them was settled?
"Time's up," the guard announced, rising to escort Mary out.
Maggie kept staring at that high window, yearning for the free wind and bright sunshine outside.
Just as Mary reached the iron door, Maggie spoke again. "Mrs. Johnson—next time, have your daughter arrange the visit in advance. Places like this can be... dangerous."
Mary's steps faltered. Without looking back, she said, "There won't be a next time."
After leaving the detention center, Mary took a deep breath. The air inside had been suffocating, thick with the stench of guilt.
Just as she was about to head home, she heard a familiar voice.
Instinctively, she ducked behind some nearby bushes and spotted Jane standing beside a black sedan, speaking in low tones with a man in a suit.
"Spread the word that Sophia has psychological issues," the voice said, smooth as poisoned silverware. "At next week's awards ceremony, focus the attack on her psych evaluation."
When the conversation ended and Jane entered the detention center, the sedan disappeared from view. Mary realized she'd bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood.
What on earth was Jane planning?