Chapter 225: Suicide Note

Chapter 225 Suicide Note

The salty sea breeze swept across the ground, carrying a biting chill that crept into collars and sleeves, and even into the marrow of our bones.

The last remnants of daylight had long been swallowed by the night, leaving only a cold, stingy moon overhead, casting a pale light that barely outlined the lonely hill beneath our feet and the freshly piled mound of earth—Byron's resting place.

The damp scent of soil mixed with the smell of freshly turned grass roots, pressing heavily against our nostrils.

Ruben stood with his back to us, his shoulders tense like a block of ice refusing to melt. 

He had been silent for a long time, so long that only the monotonous sound of waves crashing against the rocks echoed in the emptiness.

Finally, he turned around, his gaze not meeting mine or Zoey's, but instead looking past us into the endless darkness that swallowed the coastline.

"Ms. Johnson," Ruben's voice was harsh and dry, like sandpaper scraping against rough wood, "I still think something's off."

He paused, as if organizing his thoughts or gathering courage. "It was too smooth. From the moment we got here, finding those people, to them ending their own lives one by one." 

"Kurt, Byron, every encounter, every clue, it all feels like..." He swallowed hard, struggling to get the word out, "a meticulously planned trap."

I remained silent.

The sea breeze lifted the hem of Ruben's coat, flapping it loudly, outlining his tall yet solitary figure.

The doubts he spoke of, the invisible threads behind those seemingly coincidental events, had been haunting me too. 

Kurt's death came too quickly, Byron's "poisoning" scene was too clean, with no signs of struggle. 

But these cold suspicions had been temporarily suppressed in the face of Zoey's grief.

Sometimes, I really couldn't tell if Ruben was genuinely naive or just pretending. 

Calm, silent, cold, and sharp—this young man had even more potential than Benjamin.

"When I left the hotel, I couldn't find you," Ruben continued in a low voice, more like he was talking to himself, sorting through the tangled clues. 

"I called Kurt, but no one answered. Clifford told me he was dead." He took a sharp breath of the salty air and exhaled slowly. 

"At that moment, I knew Byron was probably... and sure enough."

Ruben finally looked at Zoey beside me. 

His gaze was complex, filled with lingering hurt, struggling confusion, and deep down, a faint, unextinguished glimmer of hope.

Zoey had been hanging her head since we buried Byron, her shoulders slightly slumped, as if the core of her being had been drained, making her as fragile as a piece of paper that could be blown away by the night wind. 

Feeling Ruben's gaze, her body flinched almost imperceptibly, and she buried her head even lower, a few strands of hair blown by the sea breeze sticking to her pale cheeks.

"Zoey," Ruben spoke, his voice low but heavy, breaking the silence, "I just have one question for you." 

He paused, searching for the right words, each one seeming to be squeezed out with difficulty. 

"When you held him... Byron... when you cried holding him..." He couldn't finish the piercing question, leaving only a silent accusation hanging in the air. 

'When you cried holding him, who were you thinking of? Do you have any feelings for me at all?'

Zoey suddenly looked up, her lips trembling as if she wanted to explain, to scream, but overwhelming sadness and grievance drowned out all her words.

She just stared at Ruben, her eyes filled with pain, confusion, and a near-desperate exhaustion.

"Ms. Johnson, I want to go back home. Tomorrow. I haven't finished my thesis, and I'm tired."

"Ruben!" I interrupted sternly, my tone leaving no room for argument. "Enough! Is this the time to talk about that?"

Ruben was taken aback by my outburst, a flash of embarrassment and struggle crossing his face. 

He opened his mouth as if to argue but ultimately just raised his hand and wiped his face hard, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

"I know! Ms. Johnson, I know." His voice dropped, filled with a defeated confusion. "I just, I just, damn it." 

He couldn't find the right words to describe the mess in his heart, abruptly turning away to face the dark sea, his back rigid like a rock, only his labored breathing betraying the turmoil inside him.

"She can't take it anymore," I said, softening my tone with a hint of comfort as I looked at his stubborn back. "Let her rest."

Ruben's back stiffened, but he didn't turn around.

"The graduation stuff isn't completely settled," I continued, my voice unusually clear in the sea breeze. 

"Going back might be good. It's too heavy here. Let her catch her breath." I paused, adding pointedly, "Some things, some people, need time and space to see clearly. You can't rush it."

Ruben's shoulders seemed to sag a little. He remained silent, facing the dark sea like a frozen statue.

He responded lowly and wearily, "Okay."

The air fell silent again, with only the persistent rhythm of the waves.

Just then, a faint sound, not belonging to the sea breeze, came from the bamboo path behind us.

It was a soft, almost inaudible sound of footsteps on wet pebbles, followed by the rustling of fabric.

Ruben and I turned to look almost simultaneously.

Moonlight poured down like silver, filtering through the swaying bamboo shadows, illuminating the entrance to the winding path. 

A slender figure stood there, as if formed from the moon's glow.

The moonlight outlined her clearly, highlighting her serene face—Clifford.

What was she doing here? 

The thought barely crossed my mind before she started walking towards us, or more precisely, towards Ruben. 

Her steps were steady, the sound of her shoes on the stones unusually clear in the quiet night, each step like a note on a taut string.

Ruben's brow furrowed instantly, his face showing undisguised shock and confusion. "Ms. Hayes?" 

He instinctively took half a step back, his body tensing into a defensive stance.

Clifford stopped three steps away from Ruben. 

Her gaze was calm, directly meeting Ruben's eyes, devoid of the usual aloofness of a high-society lady, instead filled with a complex, intense emotional undercurrent, like the sea before a storm.

Then, under Ruben's astonished gaze and my scrutinizing eyes, Clifford did something unexpected.

She slowly, deeply bowed. Not a casual nod, but a formal, nearly ninety-degree bow. 

Her slender neck bent, revealing a smooth patch of skin that looked fragile in the moonlight. She held the position for several seconds, time stretching and freezing.

When she finally straightened up, there was no shyness or hesitation on her face, only a resolute determination. 

Her eyes shone brightly, locking onto Ruben's uncertain gaze, her voice clear and sharp like striking jade, carrying a strange power that pierced the night:

"Ruben," she spoke in perfect English, her pronunciation precise, "I have always, deeply admired you."

The sea breeze seemed to pause at that moment.

Moonlight bathed Clifford's face, clearly reflecting the fierce, almost burning determination in her eyes. 

Her gaze wasn't just expressing love; it was declaring an unchangeable fate.

Clifford lifted her chin slightly, her long neck forming a graceful yet fragile arc. 

Her voice remained steady, but it cut through the night like a blade.

"This feeling, it may be heavy, it may be untimely, but please believe, my love is an unfinished testament." 

Clifford paused, her eyes sweeping over Ruben's rigid face, then seemingly unintentionally glancing at me in the shadows, a hint of indescribable sorrow in her gaze. 

"It existed, deeply etched, even if it never gets to write its final sentence."