During this time, he learned that Violetta had been taken by relatives from her father's side. Amy had tried to fight, but the court sided with them. Besides that, the girl herself told Amy she didn't want to live with her.
His mother didn't say it aloud, but Ray drew his own conclusion: the girl most likely hates him.
But Ray hated himself far more intensely. He hadn't been able to protect his beloved, their children, and now he wouldn't even have the chance for revenge.
A part of him longed to follow her, but somewhere deep in his soul, a hope still flickered — what if Lily and the little ones were alright?
Besides, he truly believed that death was too light a punishment for him. He had failed to protect those who were most precious to him — therefore, he must stay and live with it.
His persistent efforts bore fruit — a policeman was now sitting opposite him, asking questions.
"Do you know the attackers? Do you have any guesses about their motives? How many were there?" the man asked.
Ray wrote on a sheet of paper in clumsy but legible handwriting:
There were four of them. All of them were burly, clearly serious about sports. I don't know their motives. I had never seen them before, but they were purposefully following us. I heard fragments of their conversation, but I can't even guess who is behind it.
"I may seem harsh, but given your vision problems, you can't state with certainty that you don't know their faces," the policeman continued.
As my vision deteriorated, my hearing sharpened. I am certain I have never heard their voices before, Ray replied.
"So you have no leads at all?"
"I'm sorry, but no. Your assumption that you were the target is most likely correct. No traces at all."
"You're a smart guy, so I'll be direct: the chances of finding anything are minimal. But I will keep you informed."
When the policeman left, Ray wrote something on another piece of paper and handed it to his mother. She read it and quietly said:
"Alright. I understand."
Having asked the nurses to watch over her son, Amy set off to carry out his request.
Less than half an hour later, Mikie appeared in the room. Pain was visible in the old man's eyes as he looked at the young man.
"Kid, your mom said you wanted to see me. How can I help?" he asked.
Ray picked up the notepad again:
First, thank you for coming. I need to know what happened after the attack. I think someone from my circle might be involved. Tell me how everyone behaved.
"The fact that you're asking me this shows trust, so thank you. But the truth is, I didn't notice anything suspicious. Right after the attack, Frank, Joe, and I rushed to find those bastards. We searched for several months — and found nothing. So we gave up, for which I am ashamed," Mikie answered.
Where was Tyler?
"After what happened, he ended up in a mental hospital. He was there for three months. Now he's studying hard — wants to become a prosecutor."
Ray sighed. He understood: the chances that his friends would find something were almost nonexistent, if even the police with their resources had proved powerless. But hope smoldered somewhere inside him.
Also, I want you to take charge of my training as soon as I'm discharged. I know I'm asking a lot. If you refuse, I'll understand. I just need something to occupy my mind so I don't go insane.
"What are you talking about? Of course, I'll help. I read your letter, honestly — I'm touched. If I had a son, I'd want him to be like you. But I have to ask: do you just need to 'clear your head,' or do you want to get your upper body in shape? If it's the latter, you'll have to live by a strict schedule and completely change your diet. If it's the first, I'll just push you to the max."
To be able to move around independently somehow, I need strong arms. I don't know how long I'll last in this body, but at least until the day I find out what happened to Lily and the little ones, I need to survive.
Hearing this, the old man didn't try to talk him out of it. Life in such a state wasn't life, but torture. He had no right to decide for another person.
A week passed. Ray's recovery was going relatively well — considering his condition. This time was filled with awkwardness and self-hatred. His mother helped him with everything — including washing and going to the bathroom.
These moments bred in him an acute desire to die. He decided that as soon as they returned home, he would try to find a way to solve this problem, at least partially.
Amy was by his side the whole time. The hospital staff didn't object when she took up residence in his room. The woman was mortally afraid that her son would take his own life. And the most terrible thing — she understood: if he did it, she wouldn't be able to blame him.
The only thing keeping Ray here now was the desire to learn the truth about the fate of Lily and his daughters.
Hearing was all he had left. So Amy read aloud to him. Finishing a paragraph, she paused — the phone rang. Answering it, she grew visibly alarmed and, hanging up, said:
"Someone set our house on fire. I need to go."
Honestly, Ray couldn't care less about the house. Right now, he cared little about almost anything. But for his mother, it was the place where he had grown up. Her best memories remained there. He just nodded.
Sometime later, the door to the room opened, and Ray heard a male voice:
"My name is Brad. I'm from a delivery service. Your friends asked me to deliver a television and a DVD player. Don't worry, I'll connect everything. I was warned about your situation, no signature is needed."
Even without seeing anything, Ray felt a faint spark of warmth. He was ashamed to admit it even to himself, but he had a panicked fear of the combination of total silence and darkness. The young man suppressed this fear, but it was incredibly difficult to bear.
The man quickly connected everything and left.