Poirot placed the wig delicately on the table, then moved toward Norma with measured steps. Taking her trembling hands into his own, he looked into her tearful eyes with a gaze as steady as his words.

“It’s over, my child,” he said softly yet firmly. “No more lies, no more manipulation. You are not insane, and you are not a murderer.” His voice carried an almost paternal warmth. “The real culprits are those who sought to control you with drugs and deceit, who engineered this elaborate scheme to make you doubt your own sanity and to believe you were guilty of crimes you never committed.”

Norma’s wide, tear-filled eyes darted toward the far side of the room, landing on the woman she had trusted, the one who had lived alongside her, pretending to be her friend. Her voice cracked as she spoke, disbelief laced with anguish.

“My father... My own father? How could he do this to me? I thought he loved me...” she whispered, the words barely audible over her choked sobs.

Poirot shook his head, his expression a mixture of compassion and resolve. “Not your father, my dear. The man you believed to be your father was an imposter. Your real father passed away, and this man stepped into his place, using his resemblance and clever deception to assume his identity. His goal was to lay claim to a fortune—a fortune he could only secure by removing anyone who stood in his way.”

Norma’s face contorted in confusion, the weight of this revelation overwhelming her. Her grip on Poirot’s hands tightened as if they were the only anchor holding her to reality.

“But why... why did I believe it all?” she stammered, her voice breaking under the strain. “The fragmented memories, the nightmares... and David... his death—”

Poirot’s eyes softened, but his tone remained resolute. “They preyed on your insecurities, your doubts about yourself. They planted false evidence, false memories, all to push you further into despair. As for David Beck—” Poirot paused, his gaze shifting toward the others in the room—“he was not killed by your hand. His death was yet another piece of this monstrous scheme.”

The room seemed to constrict as Poirot’s words hung in the air, the truth unraveling with deliberate precision. All eyes were fixed on him now, the gravity of the moment palpable.

“This entire conspiracy was orchestrated by two individuals,” Poirot continued. “They exploited Norma’s fragile state, weaving a web of lies to frame her for murder. Their ultimate objective? To silence Louise Carpenter—the one person who could expose the imposter’s identity as a fraud.”

Norma’s breath hitched as she struggled to piece the puzzle together. Her gaze returned to Poirot, her desperation yielding to a flicker of comprehension. “So... so everything was a lie? Even about David?” she whispered.

Poirot nodded, his grip on her hands firm and reassuring. “Yes, my dear. You were never alone in this. The lies were their weapon, but truth is ours.”

The atmosphere in the room grew heavier, as though everyone present felt the weight of the deception. Poirot turned to Neil, his expression resolute. “Monsieur le Procureur, the time has come for justice. The villains must face the consequences of their actions. The truth has been revealed; there can be no further delay.”

Neil rose from his seat, his face set with determination. “All involved will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law,” he declared. “This will be a courtroom battle, but the truth will prevail.”

Norma looked at Poirot, her expression shifting from despair to fragile hope. Tears continued to streak her face, but there was a glimmer of relief in her trembling smile. “Thank you, Monsieur Poirot,” she whispered. “Thank you for believing in me.”

Poirot returned her smile, his voice gentle yet unwavering. “There is no need to thank me, my child. Justice was always your right. It was simply my duty to ensure it found its way.”

The silence that had filled the room dissolved into subdued murmurs as the scene reached its resolution. For Norma, the ordeal was not yet entirely over, but the shadow of guilt and confusion had begun to lift. For the others, the case had laid bare the depths of human deceit—and the enduring power of truth.

As Poirot prepared to leave, he paused for a moment, his thoughts lingering on the room’s lingering echoes of betrayal and redemption. His final words hung in the air like a benediction: “The truth may be concealed, but it can never truly be destroyed. And when it emerges, it restores what was thought lost: clarity, justice, and hope.”