Weller Kendall saw Claire Grant leaving the cetery and quickly walked over to him.
"Mr. Claire," he said respectfully.
"Go on up and keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything else foolish." Claire Grant shook his head slightly, letting out a faint sigh.
Weller Kendall bowed his head. "Don’t worry, Mr. Claire," he said in a low, serious voice. "I’ll take good care of Mr. Grant."
He turned and strode back into the cetery.
He stopped a few ters away from Theodore Grant, silently keeping him company.
Snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the entire cetery in a silvery white.
The cold air was thick with a bleak and desolate chill.
Theodore Grant remained kneeling there, motionless.
His gaze was fixed on the photograph on the tombstone...
Weller Kendall felt the urge to go over and offer a few words of comfort, but his feet remained rooted to the spot.
’It’s not so much that Theodore Grant was repenting, but that he was full of regret—the regret of knowing he’d lost any chance to make things right.’
The snow gradually subsided, turning into an icy, biting rain that pelted the ground.
Weller Kendall silently opened the umbrella in his hand, walked over, and reminded him in a soft voice, "Mr. Grant, it’s raining. Why don’t we head back?"
The umbrella tilted slightly, shielding Theodore Grant from the rain.
His slumped shoulders tensed slightly, as if in response to Weller Kendall’s words, and then he silently rose to his feet.
He didn’t say a word.
His steps were unsteady, as if he were walking in a trance.
He remained silent even after getting into the car.
"Mr. Grant, shall we go ho or to the office?" Weller Kendall asked cautiously, adding, "Your father is waiting for you at the company. Should we...?"
"Let him wait." Theodore Grant gestured dismissively with his hand, his voice soft and cold. "Ho."
"Yes." Weller Kendall imdiately turned and signaled the driver.
The driver stepped on the gas.
The car slowly pulled away from the cetery, leaving silence and sorrow in its wake.
Back at the Grant residence, the silence felt amplified, creating an oppressive atmosphere.
Mr. Wallace ca forward to greet them. He offered a pair of slippers and took Theodore Grant’s damp overcoat, his eyes glistening with tears. "Mr. Grant, has... has the mistress been laid to rest?"
Weller Kendall shook his head at Mr. Wallace, signaling him not to ask any more questions.
Mr. Wallace stifled a sob and retreated to the kitchen.
Not long after, Mr. Wallace carefully entered the living room carrying two steaming cups of coffee.
He gently placed the coffee on the table. The rich aroma imdiately filled the room, bringing a bit of warmth.
Mr. Wallace, however, did not leave imdiately. He stood in place, looking as if he wanted to say sothing but was hesitating.
Weller Kendall noticed sothing was off. He frowned slightly and said, "Mr. Wallace, that will be all. You can go and rest. Mr. Grant needs so ti alone."
Mr. Wallace’s lips moved. His fingers unconsciously twisted the hem of his jacket, the tips turning white from the pressure. "Mr. Grant, I..."
"Mr. Wallace, if you have sothing to say, say it quickly. Given the circumstances, Mr. Grant is already exhausted."
Weller Kendall’s aning was clear: Theodore Grant didn’t have the energy to deal with trivial matters.
If it wasn’t important, it could wait.
Unexpectedly, Mr. Wallace dropped to his knees in front of Theodore Grant with a THUD.
Theodore Grant lifted his heavy, grief-stricken eyelids and looked down at him. "Mr. Wallace, what are you doing?"
"Mr. Grant, I... I have wronged the mistress." Mr. Wallace raised a hand and slapped himself across the face twice. "I have to tell you... that embroidery... the mistress wasn’t the one who ruined it. It was Miss Lynch! She did it! And... and the ti Miss Lynch was stabbed, she stabbed herself! It wasn’t the mistress, it wasn’t..."
Choking back sobs, Mr. Wallace’s hands flew to his face, uncontrollably striking his own cheeks. The left side of his face swelled rapidly, and blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth.
Theodore Grant scrubbed a hand over his face, forcibly suppressing a towering rage. His lips still twitched uncontrollably. "Why are you only telling this now? Back then, when I asked you, why did you lie?"
"I... I... I didn’t dare... I didn’t dare tell the truth." Mr. Wallace waved his hands, trembling uncontrollably. "Miss Lynch... she said if I told the truth, she would make sure my son couldn’t graduate from college. I was scared, so... so I..."
"So you dared to lie to my face?" Theodore Grant’s voice was thick with suppressed, burning rage. Veins bulged on his temples and the back of his hands, pulsing like furious, wild things. "Is this how you manage my ho? She’s dead now! What’s the point of telling any of this?!"
Kneeling on the floor, tears stread down Mr. Wallace’s face as he trembled. "Mr. Grant, I’ve failed you. I’ve failed the mistress. I made an unforgivable mistake. I deserve to die... I truly deserve to die."
His cries echoed in the spacious room, filled with profound self-recrimination and regret.
Theodore Grant raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, his fingertips trembling violently, whether from sorrow or sothing else.
He leaned back on the sofa and took a long, deep breath.
"Weller Kendall," Theodore Grant’s voice was slow and heavy, as if drained of all strength, "is there any news about Yulia White’s organs?"
Weller Kendall paused. He had, in fact, found sothing on that front.
"Mr. Grant, about those two doctors who fled the country... one was found dead in an abandoned factory, and the other was drowned in his own toilet. These were obviously not natural deaths. I suspect..."
Theodore Grant’s brow furrowed, as if he’d already known it wouldn’t be simple. "You suspect... Wanda Lynch had them killed?"
Weller Kendall’s expression was uncertain. He clearly had no proof.
"For now, we can’t be certain it was Wanda Lynch, but she is a major suspect. After all, besides her, we can’t think of anyone else who would do this."
Theodore Grant was silent for a mont, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.
He had confronted Wanda Lynch before. She had firmly denied all his suspicions, and the look of innocence and hurt in her eyes was still vivid in his mory.
’He scoffed at his own naivety.’
’Perhaps that was all just an act.’
’He was the one who had projected an image of beauty and purity onto her.’
’What kind of person was she, really?’
"Mr. Grant, Noelle Bell was involved. She’s the closest one we have to the truth. But we’ll have to use certain... thods this ti."
"Make her talk." He squeezed his fist in his other hand, the cracking of his knuckles frighteningly loud.
Weller Kendall replied, "Understood."
Mr. Wallace was still kneeling.
Agitated, Theodore Grant shot Weller Kendall a look. Weller Kendall understood, rising to his feet and leading Mr. Wallace away.
All of Natalie Morgan’s things were still in the room.
But she could never co back.
He opened his palm, where the pair of pearl earrings lay quietly.
’There were never any truly happy mories between them.’
’The most peaceful days they’d had were probably the ones just before she left.’
’She had been deceiving him, lulling him into a false sense of security. Did she choose to leave on the day of his engagent because she thought he wouldn’t care?’
"Natalie Morgan, I’m telling you, if I et you in the next life, I’ll still grab hold of you and never let go. Don’t you dare... don’t you dare think... you can get away from ."
Reviews
All reviews (0)