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.

My entire body convulsed, blood and tears mingling as I watched Mom and Dad struggle in the sea of flames.

Agony and despair surged like a tide, drowning what little reason I had left. I trembled on the verge of collapse, broken sobs escaping my throat.

The onlookers pointed at me and laughed.

"Just because this lunatic suffered, she wants others to suffer even more!"

"She's long since transformed into a monster, turning her own pain into a blade to stab at the innocent."

The electric current hissed, and the image abruptly shattered.

Trisha approached Roland, her gaze sharp and cold. "It's still not enough! We must make her relive the pain of that day to break through the memory block! Otherwise, we will never uncover the truth!"

Roland's eyes reddened, his trembling hand hovering midair. He stared at me, crumpled in the chair like a broken doll, his gaze a turmoil of pain and conflict. His shaking hands could no longer hold the needles steady.

Roland's subordinate grabbed his arm urgently. "Chief Turner, half an inch more and the needles will pierce her brain! She'll be brain-damaged!"

Roland stared at my festering temples, the needles unable to advance even a fraction further.

Trisha held Roland's wrist with an iron grip. "Roland, we've already come this far. If you back down now, all of this will have been for nothing! Do you really want Wyatt and Margie to have died in vain?"

Roland's knuckles turned white, bloodshot veins spreading across his eyes. "Wendy, should I believe you?"

The victims' families knelt on the ground, clutching bloodstained photos of their loved ones, weeping and pleading.

"Chief Turner, we beg you to expose the truth! Make all her memories public! Don't let our families die in vain!"

I stared blankly at Roland, my pupils unfocused, just as they had been when Wyatt and Margie dragged me from the burning wreckage years ago.

Trisha suddenly pressed down on Roland's wrist. The needles plunged deep into my brain, and the last flicker of light in my eyes faded away.

The memory flickered to my childhood—Mom holding me in her arms as she fed me medicine. Then, my school years, with me buried in books and studies. And alas, the fire that took my parents' lives left me utterly alone.

There was also a scene of Margie carrying me on her back through a storm after school before it shifted to a scene of Roland slipping a diamond ring onto my finger at our wedding. After that, it showed Wyatt and Margie secretly tucking money into my bag after we were married.

Roland trembled violently as he watched the memories unfold, his knuckles clenched bone-white.

Trisha's phone lit up with a crime alert. She rushed to Roland's side and pressed a knife into his hand.

"Another victim is dead! We can't afford to delay any longer—every minute could mean another body!"

She pushed Roland, still gripping the knife, toward me. "Recreate the scene! Make her relive what happened to Wyatt and Margie!"

Roland's subordinate stepped in front of him and said in a low voice, "If we push any further, her body will give out. If that happened, her memory could be cut off completely."

Trisha cut him off sharply. "If we stop now, we'll never uncover the truth!"

A glint of ruthlessness and madness flashed in her eyes.

Roland's hand, the one holding the knife, trembled violently as the blade carved into my festering flesh.

Scalding tears fell from his bloodshot eyes. "Wendy, why are you forcing me to do this? Who is it? Just who is it that has kept you from revealing the truth even now?"

I slumped in the metal chair, my gaze unfocused and my vision blurred. Yet, the searing pain still racked my body with uncontrollable spasms. Wyatt and Margie had endured this same torment before their deaths.

The memory froze at the moment I pushed the door open with grocery bags in hand.

The blood on the floor was jarring, and Margie's screams pierced the air from within the room.

The grocery bags fell from my grasp, my own scream trapped in my throat.

In the scene, a figure with a knife in their hand stood trembling before me.

The crowd stared in horror and dread at the knife-wielding figure.

"H-How is this possible?"

"The killer is actually—"