Chapter 3 DROWNING IN MEMORIES

CHAPTER THREE: DROWNING IN MEMORIES

Three Days After the Stock Market Incident

"You're making a mistake," Dr. Eliza Winters said calmly, despite the duct tape around her wrists binding her to the chair. The luxurious hotel suite—rented under a false name—felt more like a prison than accommodation.

Marty Tyler paced before her, his expensive shoes silent on the plush carpet. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered thirty stories below, oblivious to the kidnapping of one of its most prominent neuropsychiatrists.

"A mistake?" Marty laughed hollowly. "I've been making nothing but mistakes for six years. No—for sixteen years." He stopped abruptly. "Tell me about Claire's scar."

Dr. Winters maintained her professional composure. "Patient confidentiality—"

"Was voided the moment you accepted five million dollars to manipulate my memories." Marty slammed a folder onto the coffee table. Inside were bank statements, offshore accounts, transactions dating back six years. "You weren't just Claire's therapist. You were her mother's accomplice."

The doctor's face paled.

"Now," Marty continued, his voice dangerously soft, "explain to me why the crescent scar I remember seeing on Claire's right hip the night I proposed—the scar from the boat propeller that cut her when she saved me from drowning—is now mysteriously on her left side."

Silence stretched between them.

"Perhaps," Marty suggested, "because it was never there to begin with?"

Dr. Winters swallowed hard. "You should be asking about the memory implantation techniques instead. Fascinating process, really. Especially on a brain affected by trauma and hypothermia."

"The scar, Doctor."

She sighed, defeat washing over her features. "Claire's mother is Regina Matthews, Chief of Plastic Surgery at New York Memorial. The woman who treated you after your... accident."

"My drowning," Marty corrected. "The one where supposedly Claire jumped in to save me."

"Yes, well." Dr. Winters looked away. "Dr. Matthews is quite skilled at creating believable scars. And removing authentic ones."

The implication hung heavy in the air.

Marty's phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number: "How's your little investigation going? Found any interesting SCARS lately?"

His head snapped up. "She's watching us."

"Who?"

"Molly." He moved to the window, scanning the buildings opposite. "How would she know what we're discussing unless..."

The doctor's eyes widened as Marty suddenly strode to the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed through the suite.

"What are you doing?" Dr. Winters called, straining against her bonds.

Marty emerged, removing his jacket and tie. "Triggering my memory the old-fashioned way." He rolled up his sleeves. "The brain remembers trauma. Recreate the conditions, recover the memories."

"That's not how it works!" Dr. Winters protested. "Controlled regression requires—"

"You had your chance with 'controlled regression,'" Marty snapped. "Now we try my way."

He disappeared back into the bathroom. Minutes later, a crash and splash sent Dr. Winters struggling against her restraints.

Inside the marble bathroom, Marty Tyler lay submerged in a bathtub filled with ice water, his body rigid with shock. Only his face remained above the surface, eyes closed, mind surrendering to the cold.

The water enveloped him like a frozen shroud, and suddenly he wasn't in a hotel bathroom anymore...

---

Sixteen Years Earlier - The Lake House

Summer heat shimmered off the dock as nineteen-year-old Marty Tyler stumbled back from the edge, champagne bottle dangling from his fingers. College freshman year complete, future secure as the Tyler heir—life was perfect.

"Careful," laughed a female voice behind him. "One more step and you'd be swimming with the fishes."

He turned, squinting against the sun to see a silhouette in a white sundress.

"Claire?" he slurred. "Thought you weren't coming until tomorrow."

The girl hesitated. "I... caught an earlier flight."

"C'mere then." He pulled her close, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of her shampoo. "You smell different."

"New perfume," she murmured, stepping away. "You're drunk, Marty."

"Celebrating!" He raised the bottle. "Dad's making me CEO when I graduate. Just need to keep my nose clean for three more years."

He spun around too quickly, losing his balance. The dock swayed beneath him.

"Marty!" the girl cried, reaching for him.

But momentum carried him backward. The last thing he saw before hitting the water was her panicked face—not quite matching his memory of Claire.

Cold enveloped him. The champagne bottle sank into the murky depths. His clothes dragged him down as his lungs screamed for air.

Then hands grabbing his shirt. A struggle. His elbow connecting with something soft—a cry of pain. Water turning pink near a slender waist. A crescent-shaped gash from the broken bottle.

On the lower back. Not the hip.

---

Present Day

Marty gasped, surging upward from the ice bath, water cascading around him as reality reasserted itself. His fingers were blue, lips nearly purple from the cold.

"The scar," he rasped, stumbling from the tub. "It wasn't on her hip. It was on her lower back. Left side. Like a crescent moon."

He fumbled for a towel, brain firing with restored neural pathways. "And it wasn't Claire at the lake house that weekend. She was still in Europe."

Dr. Winters watched as he emerged from the bathroom, dripping and transformed. "Who was it then?"

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly Douglas. The summer intern. Claire's cousin who was staying with us." His eyes widened with horrified understanding. "The one Regina Matthews claimed had a 'psychiatric episode' and had to be sent away for treatment."

"What happened after you fell in the lake?" Dr. Winters asked quietly.

"I hit my head on the boat propeller. Nearly drowned." Marty pressed his palms against his temples, memories flooding back. "When I woke up in the hospital three days later, Claire was there. Claire had 'saved' me. Claire had the scar from where I supposedly cut her during the rescue."

"And Molly?"

"Gone. They said she had a breakdown. That she'd been obsessed with me, impersonating Claire that day." His voice hardened. "But it was all lies. Regina Matthews switched their medical records. The DNA from the hair samples, the blood tests, everything."

Dr. Winters nodded slowly. "Claire's mother would have had access to all hospital records."

"They erased Molly and inserted Claire." Marty grabbed his phone, scrolling frantically through old photos. "And I believed them because of the head injury. Because they kept me medicated. Because you—" he glared at her, "—reinforced false memories during my 'recovery therapy.'"

The doctor looked away. "Regina Matthews has evidence that could destroy my career. I had no choice."

Marty's phone buzzed again with another text: "Bathtub regression therapy? Creative. But if you come near my son again, I'll make sure Noah starts calling you 'Uncle Marty' in public. How would the Tyler board feel about that?"

He typed back furiously: "I know the truth now, Molly. About the scar. About what they did to you."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Finally:

"Six years too late, Marty. You chose your white moonlight fantasy over reality. You signed termination papers for your own child. Some things even billionaires can't buy back."

Marty sank onto the edge of the bed, still dripping. "She saved my life," he whispered. "And I tried to erase her child."

Dr. Winters studied him. "What will you do now?"

His eyes hardened as he pulled up Claire's contact information. "First, I'm going to confront my fiancée about the fact that her mother lasered away Molly's scar and tattooed a replica onto her hip. Then I'm going to find out exactly what happened to Molly after I woke up in that hospital."

He stood, purpose replacing confusion. "And then I'm going to meet my son."

As Marty gathered his things, Dr. Winters called after him: "The memory alterations were extensive. There might be more you don't remember."

He paused at the door. "Like what?"

"Like why Molly was at the lake house pretending to be Claire in the first place."

Marty's phone buzzed one final time. The message contained only an ultrasound image—a new one, dated two days ago. Six weeks and three days gestational age.

And beneath it, the words that sent ice through his veins, colder than any bathtub therapy:

"History repeats itself, Marty. But this time, I won't let you anywhere near either of your children."