The name, Liam Thorne, hammered in Maëlys's head, each beat a painful revelation. A tattoo artist. The vintage convertible. The accident. It wasn't just a coincidence; it was a carefully constructed web, and Eliott was at its very center. Was he Liam? Or was he somehow connected to him, a silent guardian, a shadow figure watching her? The thought sent shivers down her spine, chilling her far more than the ocean breeze.
She didn't have to seek him out this time. He found her. Later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and angry orange, Eliott appeared on her porch. He didn't knock. He simply stood there, a dark silhouette against the dying light, as if he'd known her investigation would lead her to the precipice of truth.
Maëlys stared at him through the glass of her front door, the dog tag still clutched in her hand. Her heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat of fear and fury. He looked different now, not the playful provocateur from the supermarket, nor the comforting presence of the night. His face was drawn, his eyes, usually so intense, held a deep, profound sadness, almost resignation. He knew. He knew she had found something.
She slowly unlatched the door, opening it just enough to speak. "Liam Thorne," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Who is he, Eliott? And what does he have to do with me? With Léonie?" The name felt like a raw wound on her tongue.
Eliott flinched at the mention of Léonie. It was subtle, barely perceptible, but Maëlys caught it. His gaze dropped, then met hers again, filled with a tormented complexity she hadn't seen before. "He was... he was my brother," he confessed, his voice a low, broken whisper, a stark contrast to his usual gravelly tone. "Liam was my older brother."
The words hit Maëlys like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Brother. Eliott's brother. The man who owned the car, the man involved in the accident that had stolen her memory and Léonie's life. The web tightened, strangling her with its implications.
"He died in the crash," Eliott continued, his voice devoid of all warmth, a chilling monotone. "Léonie... she was with him. And you." His gaze held hers, an unspoken question in their depths. Do you remember?
Maëlys shook her head, tears blurring her vision. "I don't... I don't remember any of it. Only pain. Only flashes."
Eliott stepped closer, pushing the door gently open, his presence filling the threshold, but he didn't try to touch her. His eyes were haunted, filled with a grief so profound it made her own unremembered pain ache in sympathy. "I know," he said, his voice barely audible. "I know you don't. That was... that was part of it."
He paused, taking a ragged breath. "He was driving. It was late. He... he wasn't well. He had issues, Maëlys. Demons he couldn't outrun." His eyes closed for a brief moment, as if in silent agony. "I tried to stop him. That night... I knew he was going to meet you both. I told him not to drive. I begged him." He opened his eyes, their stormy depths filled with self-loathing. "But he never listened to me. Not when it mattered."
"So, you just... let him?" Maëlys's voice was sharp with disbelief and accusation.
"No!" Eliott's voice cracked, raw with emotion. "I followed him. I knew. I had a bad feeling. A premonition." His hand, large and calloused, clenched into a fist at his side. "I was behind them. Too far, but close enough to see it. The car veering, the tires screaming... and then the impact." His voice was a strained whisper, filled with the horror of the memory. "I saw it all. I was the first one there."
He finally lifted his gaze to meet hers, and the raw torment in his eyes silenced any further accusation. "You were trapped. Bleeding. Léonie... she was already gone." A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracing a path through the faint stubble on his cheek. "And you... you weren't breathing. Not properly."
He took another shaky breath. "The emergency services were minutes away. Too long. I had to make a choice. A terrible, impossible choice." His voice was barely a rasp. "I moved you. I pulled you out, knowing it could make things worse. Knowing I could kill you." He met her horrified gaze, his own filled with a desperate plea for understanding. "But you were dying. I had to save you. And when they finally arrived... they told me your memory was gone. That you wouldn't remember. And I... I made another choice. To let you forget. To let you start over, free from the nightmare of that night. Free from Liam. From me."
He extended his hand, not to touch her, but to reveal his left forearm, pushing up the sleeve of his tank top. Beneath the intricate raven tattoo, hidden by other designs, was a barely visible, faded scar. A deep, jagged line. "I almost didn't make it either," he murmured, his voice thick with unspoken pain. "And every day... every single day... I live with the knowledge of what I did. And what I couldn't prevent."
Maëlys stared at him, numb. The brutal