Page 26 of The Tower

He sits, then leans forward, his elbows on his knees as he says, “Think about it, Princess. If my father murdered your mom, I’d be the first one to say he should be locked in a cell.” I look down, not wanting to meet his gaze. I feel twitchy. Confused. I want to curl up with my feet under me, but in this stupid dress, that’s impossible.

“Why are you doing this?” I cringe, hating the needy, weak sound of my voice.

“Why am I telling you the truth? Don’t you think you deserve the truth? Your father damn sure doesn’t.”

“But it’s not …” I trail off, hugging myself, realizing I don’t know what’s true. Not anymore.

“Have you ever read an article accusing Elias Grimm of killing your mother?”

I haven’t. Not one. “I was only seven,” I say.

“But surely you’ve looked since then. Every article says your father tried to pull her back before she jumped. Jumped. Not a mention of my father. Seems odd, doesn’t it?”

I don’t nod. I don’t have to. He knows I can’t argue.

He slides off the ottoman and crouches in front of me again. This time he puts his hands on my armrests, his eyes focused on mine. His proximity makes me feel trapped. Jittery. Strangely aware.

“Your father told you lies, Sasha. You were a traumatized little girl and he told you what to see, over and over and over until it became your truth. But not the truth.”

“Stop,” I beg, then push him back as I force myself to my feet. “Please, please stop.”

His expression is hard, and for a moment, I think he’s going to press more, shoving me back into memories I don’t want and theories I don’t understand.

But then he tilts his head in silent acquiescence as he stands. “Sit back down. I’ll get you something to drink. There are other things we need to talk about.”

He starts to walk away, then pauses to open the ottoman, revealing a compartment full of blankets. He hands me one, and I wrap myself in the soft warmth, strangely grateful.

A few minutes later, he’s back. And though I’d expected more Scotch, this time he offers me a mug of hot cocoa. I sniff, then smile as I take a sip.

Right now, I really do feel safe. I know it won’t last, but it’s real. And for this one fragile moment, it’s mine.

I close my eyes, exhaustion warring with adrenaline and the rattle of unanswered questions. I drift, Grimm’s accusations twisting around me. My father is vile, but I know what I saw. My mother at the edge of the roof looking out at the city lights. Me sitting on a blanket playing with Kitty, a teal stuffed cat that was my constant companion, gone now, just like so many other happy things I’d had before she died.

And there’s my father standing behind her, giving her one firm shove. My mother going over. My scream renting the night as she plunges forward. My father standing at that murderous edge as he watches her fall and fall and fall while my screams fill the air to bursting.

In my mind—my dream?—I look around, searching for Elias Grimm. But it’s just Father and me. And the deafening silence that a moment ago was my mother’s scream.

After what feels like an eternity, Father turns and slowly walks to me. He reaches down and pulls me to my feet as Kitty falls from my lap.

“I tried to grab her sweater. You saw me. I tried to pull her back, but I couldn’t save her.” His words are low and measured. “I’m sorry, sweet girl, but you saw that bastard, Elias Grimm. He came here. He took her from us. Elias Grimm is a monster. You saw him murder your mother. You saw it with your own eyes, just like I did. Tell me, precious girl. Tell me you saw.”

“I saw it,” I say as hot tears spill from my eyes.

“He’s a monster,” Father says. “And he murdered your mother.”

“A monster,” I whisper. Then, “Mommy!”

My scream pulls me from the dream—the memory?— and Grimm rushes to me, studying my face. “You believe me,” he says softly. “You remember how she really died.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s true. You know it is.”

He’s right. But I say nothing.

“And the rest? Do you know why you didn’t remember before? Why you thought my father was there?”

“He drilled it into me,” I whisper. “Over and over and over.” It’s the root of my agoraphobia and my fear of heights. My father killed my mother in front of me. He broke me.