Chapter 310

TIMOTHY POV

The noise of the party faded as Timothy was pulled upstairs by Andy, the dimly lit hallway becoming a backdrop for an unforeseen confrontation. As they reached the guest room, Andy swiftly locked the door behind them, sealing them in a space where secrets would unravel like a tightly wound spool.

Timothy, still trying to make sense of the night's chaotic events, looked at Andy with a furrowed brow. "What's this about, Andy? Why lock me in here?"

Andy, his movements betraying a faint scent of alcohol, met Timothy's gaze with a cold determination. "You need to face the consequences of your actions, little brother."

Suspicion flickered in Timothy's eyes as he took in the subtle aroma that clung to Andy's breath. "What's going on? Why do you smell like alcohol?"

Before Timothy could press for an answer, Andy's hand emerged from his pocket, clutching a cold, metallic object. The air thickened with tension as the gun gleamed ominously in the dim light. Timothy's eyes widened, a mix of shock and fear coursing through him.

"What the hell, Andy? Why do you have a gun?" Timothy demanded.

Andy, a sinister smile playing on his lips, cut him off before he could continue. "This is yours, Tim. Or at least, it's the gun they described you having."

Confusion and disbelief knitted Timothy's brow. "I don't want that damn thing. Why would I even—"

Andy interrupted, pulling the gun from his pocket and brandishing it menacingly. "You don't remember, do you? Or are you pretending not to? Cold-blooded killers like you can be quite forgetful."

Timothy's eyes widened with a mixture of terror and realization. "Andy, please, I don't want anything to do with that gun. I'm not like—"

But Andy's taunts cut through Timothy's pleas as he circled him, the barrel of the gun never wavering. "You killed Stella, Tim. Cold and calculated. Just like they described. Why deny it now?"

The accusation hung heavily in the room, choking the air between the brothers. Timothy's mind raced, trying to make sense of the horrifying scenario unfolding before him. The revelations about his family, the accusations at the party, and now Andy, armed and accusing him of a crime he couldn't fathom committing.

"I didn't kill Stella," Timothy stammered, his voice desperate. "Don’t you think that they would’ve mentioned bullet wounds if I had shot her like you’re implying?”

Andy's tone shifted, the mocking demeanor replaced by a more somber one. "Guns are good for threats too, not just shooting."

Confusion etched Timothy's face as he struggled to comprehend Andy's words. "What do you mean by that?”

Andy cut him off, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’m saying that I don’t think she threw herself off that balcony, Tim. Either she was pushed, or she was threatened into doing it."

A chill ran down Timothy's spine as the weight of Andy's words settled in the room. "You think I threatened her into jumping off?”

Andy, keeping the gun trained on his brother, began to pace the room. "She wasn’t suicidal. She never would’ve given up like that just because you and your side-piece were trying to incriminate her."

Timothy's breath hitched as he listened, the pieces of the puzzle rearranging in his mind. "I didn’t have the gun when I met her that night, and she died long after I’d left, Andy. There’s no way…"

The room seemed to close in on Timothy. The accusations hurt coming from his own brother. He sank onto the guest bed, eyeing the gun’s barrel. Which Andy kept pointed at him.

"I left before anything happened," Timothy insisted, his voice strained. "I didn't kill Stella, Andy."

Andy met Timothy's gaze, his features twisted. "I…I believe you, Tim. But I can't trust my own memory from that night."

Confusion flickered in Timothy's eyes at the admission. "What do you mean? What happened that night?"

But before Andy could respond, the sound of Evie's voice echoed through the corridor, calling for Timothy. The urgency in her tone sped up his heartbeat, and his body jerked toward the door in reflex.

"Tim, we'll talk more about this later," Andy said, his voice cryptic.

Timothy was too weary to turn his back on Andy. He searched his mind for answers that seemed to slip through his grasp. The room's atmosphere shifted when he spotted Andy’s lazy grin.

"What's going on with you, Andy?" Timothy demanded, a sense of unease settling in. “Are you saying you saw her that night? Before she died?”

Instead of answering, Andy's grin widened. In a darkly playful tone, Andy looked past him as Evie’s shouts grew closer. "Sounds like your girlfriend wants some company. Does she know where you were that night?"

“Andy, you’re not making any sense,” said Timothy. “Have you been drinking again? Actually, you don’t even have to answer that. I can smell it on you.”

Andy winced at that, and he took a step back. Timothy's gaze remained fixed on the gun, and he wondered if Andy was drunk enough to do something rash. Even Andy’s admission of not remembering what happened that night unsettled him further.

Timothy's eyes never left the gun as Andy spoke, his tone laced with a cold determination. "I just need confirmation about that night. If it wasn’t you, who else would’ve wanted her dead."

"I don’t know, Andy, but you seem really off right now. How about you just put down the gun, okay?"

Andy, defensive and defiant, clenched the gun in his hand as he shot back, "I'm not drunk, Tim. I'm just confused. I may not trust my own memory right now, but I know one thing—I’d never lay a finger on Stella, no matter how angry I was about what she did."

Timothy, still wary of the gun in Andy's possession, took a step back. "Confused about what? What happened that night that's messing with your head?"

Andy's eyes darted around the room, as if searching for answers within its walls. His voice, a blend of frustration and vulnerability, cut through the charged air. "I don't know, Tim. Everything is a blur. I remember arguing with Stella, but the details, the moments leading up to it, are hazy. I can't trust my own memory."

The gravity of Andy's admission hung heavily between them, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on the room. Timothy, torn between empathy and the need for clarity, cautiously probed further. "Why are you bringing this up now, Andy? And why do you have a gun? This isn't the way to figure things out."

Andy's gaze met Timothy's, the spark of anger in his eyes flickering as he struggled with his own turmoil. "I don't know, Tim. It's like something snapped in my head. I needed to confront this, to confront you. Stella's death has haunted me for too long, and I can't shake the feeling that there's more to the story."

Timothy's frustration morphed into a genuine concern for his brother. "Andy, we need to approach this with a clear head. Accusing me like this, involving Evie, it's not helping anyone."

Andy, his grip on the gun tightening, shot back, "I need answers, Tim. Stella's gone, and I can't keep living with the uncertainty of it. I can't bear the weight of not knowing what happened that night."

Timothy softened his tone. "I understand, Andy. But pointing that gun at me won't bring the answers you're looking for. We need to find the truth together, without accusations and without weapons."

Andy's defensive stance only solidified. "I wasn’t going to shoot you, you idiot. It’s your gun. Maybe don’t leave it lying around next time, hm?"

"But I didn’t,” Timothy started, but Evie’s voice came through again, this time right in font of the door.

Gun still pointed at Timothy, the grin returned to Andy’s face as he shouted, “In here, Evie!”