Chapter 181 The Unanswered Call

Chapter 181 The Unanswered Call
Jane's POV

My chest felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand, waves of dull pain spreading through me so intensely I could barely breathe. But beneath this heart-wrenching agony lurked a bone-deep terror—I was afraid, truly afraid that everything was exactly as awful as I was imagining.

I feared that behind my mother's gentle smile lay nothing but lies, that the intimacy in those photographs was an irreversible truth, and that the person I'd looked up to my entire life had a side I'd never known.

Could it be that my father's drastic personality change all those years ago, his hysterical hatred toward my mother, was never without reason?

Those fragments of arguments I'd deliberately ignored, my father's angry looks when he seemed about to speak but held back, my mother's occasional distant expressions—were they all foreshadowing that had been planted long ago? Was there really a pattern to everything?

I staggered back half a step, my fingertips ice-cold as if dipped in freezing water, even my breathing trembling uncontrollably.

Just as I was being suffocated by pain and fear, nearly drowning in my own spiraling thoughts, David's voice reached my ears, steady as an anchor, instantly pulling me back from the brink of collapse. "Jane, look here—there's contact information."

I jerked my head up, following his slender finger—there on the second-to-last page of the book, written in faded ink at the bottom of the page, was a line of small handwriting: a phone number and an unfamiliar address, lying quietly on the yellowed, brittle paper like a crack suddenly opened, leading to a truth I dared not face.

My heart plummeted like a stone, my feet feeling like they were filled with lead, unable to move. Should I continue? I asked myself repeatedly, my fingertips clenched white.
My mother was the only light I had in this cold house.

Ever since my father's personality changed, leaving me with nothing but criticism, coldness, and even abuse, it was my mother's smile, her gentle encouragement, that became my life's beacon. She would always stroke my head and say, "Be brave and pursue what you want to do, don't have regrets like Mommy does. Mommy will always support you."

It was this strength that sustained me after I escaped that suffocating home, gritting my teeth to persist in writing until I finally became the author I wanted to be.

If the truth would destroy her perfect image in my heart, if her gentleness hid unknown secrets, then what were all these years of longing and perseverance? A self-deceptive joke?

I let out a heavy sigh, filled with indescribable bitterness and struggle, the light in my eyes gradually dimming like a candle blown out by the wind.

The next second, David gently wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. His arms were strong and powerful, his chest burning hot with a reassuring warmth that instantly enveloped me.

His chin rested on top of my head, his voice low and gentle, filled with patient coaxing as he repeatedly patted my back. "It's okay, Jane, it really is. No matter what the outcome is, no matter what the truth looks like, I'll always be with you. I'll never let you face this alone. Don’t be scared—I’ll keep telling you over and over, I’m right here with you."

I took a deep breath, suppressing the turmoil and panic in my heart, and nodded solemnly at David, my voice carrying a note of determined resolve. "Let's keep looking. Maybe there are other clues hidden here."

After I spoke, we searched the entire room again—dust under the bed was swept away, every shelf was thoroughly examined, corners of the closet, hidden compartments in the desk, even the margins of those psychology books were read word by word.

But as time passed, sunlight slanting from the window frame to the corner of the wall, we still came up empty-handed. This room could offer us no new guidance.

I stood in the center of the room, my gaze slowly sweeping over those childhood toys, yellowed books, and the photographs lying quietly in my palm.

A mixture of emotions flooded over me like a tide—nostalgia for past warmth, confusion about my mother's secrets, and complex feelings about this "home." This was once where I grew up, but now it held only dust and unsolved mysteries. In the end, I still had to say goodbye to it.

Without lingering any longer, I clutched the paper with the address and left with David for the unknown.

The car drove for a long time, gradually leaving behind the city's hustle and bustle, finally stopping in a remote suburb. Before us stood a solitary villa with mottled walls, withered vines tangled around the fence, not a soul in sight, even birds were scarce.

Yet despite the desolate appearance, there were clear signs of recent habitation—fresh tire tracks in the gravel driveway, a neatly trimmed patch of lawn near the entrance, and curtains that hung properly in the windows rather than hanging askew as they would in a truly abandoned place.

When the wind blew, leaves rustled, making the place seem even more eerily desolate.

My heartbeat involuntarily quickened, my fingertips slightly cold. I stepped forward and knocked on the heavy wooden door—the sound of knocking echoed clearly in the empty suburb, but like a stone dropped in the ocean, it received no response for a long time.

My unease deepened. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number on the paper—the phone made connecting sounds, proving the line was active, but the ringing went on and on until it automatically disconnected, with no one ever answering.

A strange chill crept up my spine. I stood there, looking at this silent villa, suddenly hesitant: Had we found the right place? What was hidden here? Why were there signs of habitation but no one answering?