I'm a major suspect in the in-law murder case in Nexford. My husband, Roland Turner, also known as the police chief, personally arrests me.

During my trial, the murderer commits yet another murder. The latest victims are killed once again using the same brutal method.

Roland kneels on the floor while begging me to tell him the truth. I answer him that I have no idea what it is.

At the same time, the victims' families keep screaming at me, wanting to skin me alive for my crimes.

Three months later, Roland brings a Memory Decryptor with him. He finds me near a pile of trash. With trembling hands, he pierces two thin needles through my temples.

"I'm so sorry, Wendy. I know you're not the murderer, but I just want this slaughterfest to end. I don't want to see anyone else die again.

"We can also use this chance to show your memories to everyone. That way, we can find out what the actual truth is."

But once he views my memories, he suffers from an emotional breakdown and sinks to his knees.

When Roland Turner, along with his men, found me, I was curled up beside a trash can. Filth clung to my skin, and my eyes were as hollow as those of a walking corpse. Trembling, I stuffed scraps of food into my mouth.

He stood beside me, shaking.

"How could this happen?" he asked with reddened eyes.

I jolted at the sound of his familiar voice, my grimy hands freezing mid-motion.

It was Roland.

My heart clenched with sudden pain, and instinctively, I wanted to hide. I didn't want him to see me in this wretched state.

I tried to flee, but several men held me down firmly, leaving me unable to move.

Roland leaned closer, his burning gaze filled with anticipation.

"Wendy Crane, I'm asking you one last time—what really happened to my parents?"

The people beside him glared at me with bloodshot eyes, their knuckles cracking as they clenched their fists.

The splattered blood from that night and the grotesque faces of my in-laws, Wyatt Turner and Margie Lyon, flashed before my eyes again. I shook my head uncontrollably.

"Chief Turner, this vile creature is already rotten to the core! You must stop holding onto any hope for her!"

"She's a demon! Showing mercy to a beast like her tramples on the dignity of the dead!"

Roland's junior, Trisha Fuller, tugged at his sleeve. With red-rimmed eyes, she whispered, "Roland, she's no longer the Wendy you knew. Please wake up!"

Disheveled and filthy, I tried to shrink further into the corner. Seeing their intimate gestures, I lowered my head and stared blankly at my scabbed knees.

Roland clenched his fists and hoarsely ordered, "Take her back."

Just as Roland turned away, the enraged family members surged forward, their fists and kicks raining down like a storm.

I curled up in a pool of blood, the sharp crack of ribs breaking mingling with their curses. Excruciating pain washed over me, swallowing my consciousness.

Hand in hand with Trisha, Roland walked away, his figure growing distant until he vanished from sight without a backward glance.

When I woke again, thick ropes had cut deep into my festering flesh. My limbs were bound to a cold metal chair, machines humming beside me.

Roland's face was pale, his hands trembling as he clutched two fine needles.

"Once the Memory Decryptor is activated, it cannot be stopped," Roland said, turmoil and anguish churning in his eyes. "You will suffer unbearable pain. And once your memories are made public, everything you've hidden will be exposed.

"Wendy, I'm asking you one last time—how exactly did my parents die?"

I writhed, desperate to break free. But the ropes only dug deeper into my flesh, and the chair remained immovable. I shook my head frantically, but only broken, choked sobs escaped my throat.

A flicker of conflict and anguish passed through Roland's eyes, the needles in his hand nearly slipping from his grasp.

Trisha, her face deathly pale, stepped forward. "Roland, you can't hesitate any longer. We just received word that another brutal murder has occurred. They're retaliating and warning us that taking Wendy was only the beginning."

Roland's expression hardened, his resolve solidifying. Finally, he uttered coldly, "Wendy, don't blame me. You brought this upon yourself!"

Gritting his teeth, Roland pressed the needles against my temples. A sharp, piercing pain, like a chisel drilling into bone, shot straight through my skull. Blood trickled down my cheeks, staining my tattered clothes.

Trisha stepped closer, her expression cold as she dug her nails into my wound.

"We haven't started the machine yet. This is your last chance to tell the truth! Once your memories are made public, you'll suffer more than death itself."

Seeing me remain silent, she smirked disdainfully. "You heartless monster! After all the kindness Wyatt and Margie showed you, how could you repay them with such cruelty?"

Roland pressed the activation button, and an electric current instantly surged through my body. I convulsed in agony, my broken screams tearing through the laboratory. It felt as if my brain were being scraped open with a blade.

A second later, blood gushed from my nostrils.

The onlookers clapped and laughed wildly as they watched me writhe in pain.

The family members cheered with glee. "Let this murderess suffer to death!"

The first segment of memory flickered before everyone's eyes.

The screen displayed a scene not long after Wyatt and Margie had passed away.

Kneeling before their graves, I traced the cold surface of their headstones with trembling fingers.

A flicker of clarity returned to my eyes as I watched the playback, my heart feeling as if it were being shredded. Silent tears streamed down my cheeks.

In my dazed state, I momentarily forgot the searing pain coursing through my body. It was as if I could hear Margie's voice as she served warm soup, or see Wyatt leaning on his cane.

The surrounding onlookers murmured among themselves.

"Look at how heartbroken she is. Could it be that there's more going on than we know?"

"Killers often return to the scene of the crime. She must've gone back to admire her handiwork."

"I gotta hand it to her. She's still putting on an act even after they're gone. If she truly cared about Wyatt and Margine, why wouldn't she just tell us the truth?"

Roland stared at the memory playback, trembling violently. "Wendy, why? Why won't you just tell me the truth?"

Trisha gripped my chin mockingly, sneering, "Quite the performance you've put on. Who are you kneeling for, you murderess? Playing the dutiful daughter-in-law? I bet you're just afraid that someone might be watching! Well, not everyone is fooled by your act!"

I struggled desperately to break free from her grip when suddenly, the memory on the screen shifted.

A group of people approached the cemetery. I was shoved into a burlap sack, then blows rained down on me. The sickening crack of my ribs fractured the air between their snarled curses, and soon, blood began to seep through the sack.

They roared, "A life for a life!"

Agony consumed me as I curled into a bloodied heap on the ground.

"The family of a killer deserves to be left in the wild for stray dogs to feed on!"

"No!" I thrashed and roared, but their clubs came crashing down, shattering both my legs.

They tore open the soil of Wyatt and Margie's graves, kicking their urns to the ground.

My fingers bled as I clawed through the ashes, hands trembling as I scooped the remains back into the urns.

When Roland arrived and saw the desecrated graves, his eyes turned bloodshot. He seized me by the throat and slammed me against the headstone.

"You vile creature! You couldn't even let the dead rest? After all they did for you, how could you betray them like this?"

I tried to explain, but his rage cut me off again and again, until everything went black.

My body convulsed, my eyes burning crimson. A guttural scream tore from my throat as blood mingled with tears and streamed down my face.

The sight of Wyatt and Margie's graves being violated again sent pain through me like ten thousand ants gnawing at my marrow.

Roland's pupils dilated sharply, his face pale as sheets.

"How could this be? Could I have mistakenly blamed her?" he rasped.

Trembling, he tried to stop the Memory Decryptor. But Trisha swiftly blocked his hand.

"Roland, stay calm. If Wendy truly had some hidden reason, why wouldn't she have told us the truth? Besides, the Memory Decryptor cannot be stopped now. This has to be an act.

"For all we know, she ordered those grave robbers herself. After all, you and these criminals are on opposing sides."

Roland stood frozen, his entire body shaking.

The memory on the screen flickered, and the machine emitted a sharp, crackling noise.

I was pinned by several vagrants beside a fetid ditch, my clothes torn away. Their foul breath hissed against my neck, and grimy fingernails dug into my thrashing body.

"Boss, what if this cripple tells someone what we did to her?" one of the vagrants asked.

"Then we'll just cut out her tongue."

I convulsed in agony, blood gushing forth.

The victims' families, however, clapped and laughed. "Serves her right! Let her taste what it's like to suffer!

Staring at my long-severed tongue, Roland staggered backward, nearly collapsing.

"Wendy couldn't possibly be the killer. She was injured severely!"

Trisha grabbed Roland's arm, her gaze sharp. "Even if she isn't the killer, she knows the truth! These memories are irrelevant. We must intensify the pressure to force out the key information. Otherwise, the killings will never end!"

Gritting his teeth and trembling, Roland pushed the needles even deeper into my temples.

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.