After hanging up with Flora Rhodes, Moira Sloan lingered in bed for a while longer before getting up to wash.
Her stomach didn’t hurt as much as it had last night.
But a dull, persistent ache remained.
According to Jean Hale, it was hereditary. Mrs. Hale had been the sa way when she was young, as had her mother, Yvonne Tate.
Thinking of Yvonne Tate, the corner of Moira Sloan’s mouth twitched slightly. She couldn’t actually rember what Yvonne Tate looked like anymore, only a vague impression that she had been very gentle.
Of course, that could just be sothing she had made up herself.
After all, she had only been three years old when Yvonne Tate passed away.
The mories of a three-year-old are half real, half imagination.
Her thoughts drifted idly, but after washing her face, Moira promptly reined them in.
She had sothing important to do today and couldn’t afford to waste any more ti.
Coming out of the bathroom, Moira Sloan sat on the edge of the bed and picked up her phone to make a call.
When the call connected, Moira Sloan spoke with a warm smile, "Mr. Reynolds, are you busy?"
As soon as she finished, a middle-aged man’s deep, steady voice ca from the other end. "Not at all. You’re back in Atheria? Your aunt was just talking about you the other day."
Moira replied, "I am. Mr. Reynolds, there’s sothing I need your help with."
The man didn’t even ask what it was before agreeing instantly. "Alright, na it."
A warmth spread through Moira’s heart, and she didn’t stand on ceremony. "I need the surveillance footage from the third floor of The Continental Hotel, preferably from the last year."
’A shorter tifra might not be convincing enough.’
The man asked, "When do you need it?"
Moira said, "Is it possible to get it before tonight?"
The man chuckled. "Don’t you have faith in your Uncle Reynolds? I’ll have it for you before two this afternoon."
Moira said, "Thank you, Mr. Reynolds."
"You, kiddo," he said, "still being so formal with . I haven’t even given you a piece of my mind about what happened before. Sothing that huge happens, and you just leave without a word? What? You think your Uncle Reynolds is too old to help you anymore?"
Moira had expected he would bring this up. She didn’t make excuses, just smiled and said, "No, not at all. I was just tired back then and wanted to rest."
The man sighed. "Alright, I won’t press you for details. Your aunt already warned not to add to your worries. I just want to tell you..."
His voice suddenly choked up. He took about half a minute to compose himself before continuing, "You’re not alone, and you’re not without support. If sothing’s wrong, you can talk to and your aunt. Don’t be like..."
He didn’t finish, his voice catching in his throat again.
Listening to him, Moira’s heart grew heavy. "Mr. Reynolds, I know what you want to say. Don’t worry, I won’t."
The man just humd in acknowledgnt.
The man’s full na was Henry Reynolds. Moira Sloan’s connection to him was through his daughter.
It was a long story, but to make it short:
Henry Reynolds’s daughter had been a strear who lived in the sa residential complex as Moira. Driven to depression by cyberbullying, she had jumped from her building, completely naked, on the day of her death.
Moira happened to be coming ho from work that day and saw it happen. She stepped out from the crowd of gawking onlookers, took off her own short-sleeved shirt, and covered the girl’s body.
It was sumr then, and Moira had been wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and a pair of slim-fit jeans.
Once the shirt was off, she was left in just a black tube top.
To be honest, it was an outfit that wasn’t quite accepted by conventional standards.
The mont she took off her shirt, quite a few n in the crowd started whistling lewdly.
They had ignored the girl who had been cyberbullied to death, yet were ’overflowing with enthusiasm’ for her.
That day, Moira stood up, glared coldly at the jeering crowd, and said just one thing, "Haven’t you ever seen a woman before? Go ho and look at your own mother."
The words were crude.
But the person had class.
Because of this, after they had handled Winter Reynolds’s funeral arrangents, Henry Reynolds and his wife personally ca to thank her. They said she had given Winter the last shred of dignity she had in this world.
After that, through back-and-forth contact, they beca connected.
After hanging up with Henry Reynolds, Moira Sloan zoned out for a mont before leaving the hotel to buy a new laptop.
By the ti she returned with the laptop, Mr. Reynolds, working with impressive speed, had already sent her the video from the third floor of The Continental Hotel.
Seeing the video file, Moira texted Henry Reynolds to thank him.
Henry Reynolds: Don’t carry your burdens alone. Tell and your aunt.
Moira Sloan: I’m sorry to make you and your aunt worry about .
Henry Reynolds: We’re happy to.
Seeing Henry Reynolds’s ssage, Moira Sloan pressed her lips together, her heart filled with warmth.
Next, Moira opened the video files Henry Reynolds had sent. She went through them one by one, editing together a clip of the mont when Rachel Yates and Shane Jennings appeared at the door of Room 327 at the sa ti.
If she wanted to clear her na and ensure Rachel Yates could never recover, she had to be perfectly prepared.
Revenge was sothing that required a single, decisive blow. Otherwise, if you don’t stamp out the fire completely, it will just flare up again.
By the ti Moira finished all the editing, it was already ten at night. Connor Quinn still hadn’t returned, leaving her alone in the massive room. She reached for her phone, which had been tossed aside, to check the ti and saw an unread ssage on the screen.
She swiped her finger across the screen to open it. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the ssage.
Rachel Yates: Moira, you’re back in Atheria?
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