The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

My Late Night Journey of Rediscovery: The Killer Case of Curious Conkers.

Royce, ever the man of his word, fulfilled his pledge to embark on a retrospective expedition.

Eschewing any preliminary disclosures regarding our intended locations, he preferred to allow my recollection to unfold organically--a term that, I confess, has steadily lost its initial appeal.

He patiently waited by the parked motorcycle as I lingered in the shadows, attempting to piece together the fragments of the map he refused to share.

After ignoring multiple texts, Colt finally responded to Royce's messages with a blunt "fuck off" and a repudiation that he did not need to be watched over by his older brother.

Royce did not appreciate the harsh dismissal, as evidenced by his sullen silence, but he managed to keep his emotions in check.

Based on my observations thus far, it seemed highly unlikely that the ongoing tension between the two brothers would ever be resolved.

As the hours dragged on, a sharp pang of lamentation twisted in my stomach for deviating from Royce's well-crafted plans.

If I had not shown up earlier, with my reckless breaking and entering, he would have most likely gone about his normal routine without a second thought.

Thankfully, Colt's dismissive text message had thrown a wrench in those plans and made Royce equally recalcitrant to go home.

His energy crackled with a newfound vigour as he stared broodingly at the night sky like he wanted to wrap a noose around the man on the moon's neck and forcefully yank him down to earth for an undeserving beating.

Or perhaps, in contrast, he found solace in the twinkling stars above, as if they offered respite for his turbulent thoughts. Either way, he was not ready to leave me either.

Our first stop's unsettling nature was only amplified by its mundane surroundings.

The unfamiliar street, lined with well-maintained houses and parked cars in a state of slumber, made it indistinguishable from any other peaceful suburb.

To anyone passing by, I must have looked like a crazy person, standing alone on the deserted street at night while the rugged, leather-clad biker across the road leaned casually against the sleek motorcycle, watching me closely as I loitered about like a confused, directionless idiot.

A world away from the opulence I knew, these houses possessed a unique appeal.

The scent of freshly mowed lawns mingled with the laughter echoing from those rustic-bricked walls.

Tire swings creaked under the weight of unseen children while sun-faded toys and bikes lay haphazardly in people's gardens.

It all whispered of carefree play and the simple joys of childhood, experiences I had craved during my younger years, contrary to my privileged upbringing.

"I am utterly perplexed." My fingers tangled in my hair as I surveyed the street, lined with homes decorated with dancing wind chimes. "I fail to understand the connection between this neighbourhood and recovering my memories."

Royce was the king of organic memory restoration and the master of unhelpful silence. His commitment to my cognitive recovery boot camp was hardcore. No matter how many times I asked for information, he dismissed me with inscrutable wordlessness.

"This place holds no significance for me," I told him, the words echoing hollowly in my mind. I knew he would not reply. "I feel just as disconnected here as I do everywhere else."