Chapter 55

Only three people were in the villa.

Martha Clementson. Stella Valentine. Lily Savigny.

The surveillance footage clearly showed the moment—Stella wasn't even present.

"Mr. Roland, did Ms. Savigny and Martha have any prior contact?"

The officer's question cut through Adrian's thoughts like a knife.

After the car accident six years ago, he had isolated himself in the old family estate. Martha would visit occasionally. Lily stayed by his side.

They knew of each other's existence.

But they had never actually met.

"...No."

The officers exchanged confused glances.

"Motive? Why would a stranger kill Martha?"

"Unless..."

"The villa's surveillance shows no outsiders entered in the past seven days."

"Could it be..."

When Adrian stepped out of the police station, the setting sun stretched his shadow long across the pavement.

His phone screen lit up—twenty-three missed calls.

All from Lily.

"Adrian!" Her voice was urgent, laced with a coquettish whine. "Mom keeps asking when we're getting our marriage license."

He closed his eyes.

"Adrian?"

"Bad signal." His voice was hoarse.

"That day at the jewelry store, Stella must have been following us! How else could she afford such an expensive ring—"

"Lily."

"Yes?"

"I'm exhausted."

"But the marriage license—"

"Martha's case isn't closed yet." His tone turned icy. "I won't let her death go unanswered."

Silence on the other end.

"...Wasn't it Stella who pushed her?" Lily's voice trembled slightly.

"You saw it happen?"

"Of course! I tried to stop her but—"

"Lily." He cut her off. "I despise lies more than anything."

Shallow breathing filled the line.

"The police have surveillance footage." He spoke each word deliberately. "It chilled me to the bone."

"What footage?!" Her voice sharpened.

"We're done."

"Because of Stella? Or that bastard child of hers?"

"Because you crossed the line."

......

Stella stood outside the Houston Grand Hotel.

The taxi had just pulled away when she spotted the familiar small figure.

"Miss!" The boy waved at her, clutching a soccer ball.

His eyes were still bright, but his face looked paler.

"Mom's working." He pointed at the hotel. "My illness... got worse."

Stella followed his gaze.

A gaunt woman mopped the lobby floor, her faded clothes worn thin from washing.

"Miss, I'll sing for you." The boy suddenly offered. "No charge."

His childish voice carried the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," piercingly clear in the twilight.

The woman emerged dragging a bucket, wiping her rough hands on her apron.

"Miss..." She stood awkwardly. "Could I trouble you for a moment?"

Her eyes held too many unspoken emotions.