He told me that it would make me see, make me understand him. That if I drank, I would see the things he saw. That he wanted me to understand him, that I was his wife.
This time, she did start crying, tears that coursed silently down her cheeks, the corners of her mouth.
Something else clicked solidly into place, where I'd already thought it would go.
"The ThreeEye," I said.
She nodded. "And … I saw things, Mr. Banks. I saw him."
Her face screwed up, and I thought she was going to vomit. I could sympathize. To have the Third Sight suddenly opened to you like that, not knowing what it was, what was happening to you; to look on the man you had wed, who had given you children, and to see him for what he truly was, obsessed with power, consumed by greed—it had to have been hell.
