Chapter 56 He Is Still Alive!
Sloane's POV
After seeing Hannah off, the villa fell back into a suffocating silence.
I sat alone in the empty living room. The sweet smell of cake still lingered in my nose, but it couldn't drive away even a bit of the coldness in my heart.
My phone screen lit up—a text from an unknown number.
I opened it, and a photo jumped out at me.
In a hospital room, Keira lay in bed looking pale, her head wrapped in bandages. Jared sat beside the bed, leaning forward slightly, looking at her with focused attention. His posture showed a patience and care I'd never seen before.
Below the photo was a line of provocative text: [See? I'm the one he truly loves. He'll always come back to me.]
This clumsy attempt at provocation was so stupid, it was like Keira herself was standing in front of me yelling.
I couldn't even be bothered to waste any emotion on it. I just took a screenshot with a blank face, then found Jared's number and sent the image along with that provocative message right back to him.
In less than ten seconds, his call came through.
"Sloane, let me explain!" As soon as I answered, his urgent and flustered voice came through the receiver, carrying a hint of embarrassment at being caught. "It's not what you think. I came to the hospital because..."
"Because you feel guilty," I coldly interrupted him, finishing his sentence for him. "Guilty that you didn't rush to comfort her last night, and even more guilty that she got her leg broken because of what's between you and me. So now you're making it up to her, right?"
Dead silence fell on the other end of the line. My calmness and ability to see right through him clearly left him more at a loss than any hysterical questioning would have.
After a long pause, he finally found his voice again, hoarsely admitting, "Yes, after all, she got hurt because of me..."
"That's your business," I interrupted him again, my tone completely flat. "It has nothing to do with me."
My detachment made his breath catch. He clearly hadn't expected this reaction from me.
After a moment of silence, he suddenly asked in a strange tone, "Aren't you curious who did it?"
"Does it matter who did it?" I asked back, finding his question ridiculous.
"Take a guess." He stubbornly pressed on, his voice very low, as if guiding me toward some predetermined answer.
Alarm bells went off in my mind, and an absurd suspicion surfaced. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, my tone full of mockery. "Jared, you're not suspecting me, are you?"
"It's not you!" He immediately denied it, his tone so urgent it was almost out of control. Then he threw out a name that hit me like a thunderbolt. "It's Grayson."
My brain went blank for a moment.
Grayson.
This name that had long been buried deep in my memory, equated with death, had actually come out of Jared's mouth.
"You're crazy." I heard myself say in a voice almost like sleep-talking. "Jared, you're actually suspecting a dead person."
"He's not dead." Jared's voice was terrifyingly certain. "Sloane, think about it carefully. Everything that's happened recently has been too coincidental. The way Keira was attacked—clean, efficient, leaving no trace. Only he could do it."
I didn't listen any further and hung up directly.
My whole body felt like it had been thrown into an ice cellar, cold seeping through every limb.
Jared must have lost his mind. To keep me tied to him, he'd actually started making up such ridiculous lies, even going so far as to dig up my most painful past.
But that name was like a curse, lingering in my mind.
I couldn't sit still anymore. I grabbed my car keys and rushed out of the apartment.
I drove fast the whole way.
New York's autumn was brief and bleak. Outside the car window, fallen leaves swirled up and down.
The group home looked the same as always, except the ivy on the outer wall had grown even thicker.
I parked at the foot of the hill behind it and walked step by step through thick fallen leaves toward that small cemetery.
Grayson's tombstone stood there quietly. The area in front was clean, no weeds, and there was even a somewhat wilted bouquet of white daisies.
Everything was the same as when I'd last visited.
I crouched down, my fingertips gently brushing over the cold name on the tombstone. Jared's words echoed in my ears again.
Grayson, are you really still alive?
As soon as this thought emerged, I forcibly pushed it down.
No, impossible.
I'd watched him being buried with my own eyes, piled up his grave mound with my own hands.
Familiar footsteps came from behind. I turned around to see Director Aria holding a thick coat, looking at me with concern.
"Sloane, why did you suddenly come back? Dressed so lightly, aren't you afraid of catching cold?" She walked over and draped the coat over my shoulders, her cloudy eyes full of worry. "You look so pale. Did something happen?"
"I'm fine, Director," I forced out a smile, not wanting to worry her. "I just suddenly wanted to come back and visit."
Director Aria sighed and didn't press further, just patted my hand. "It's good you're back. Come inside for some hot tea. Your favorite black tea—I've been keeping it for you."
I shook my head and stood up. "I want to go see Grayson's room."
Hearing that name, Director Aria's eyes dimmed. She nodded. "Go ahead. That room has stayed empty, and everything inside is still the same."
I pushed open that familiar wooden door with its peeling paint.
The room was small with simple furnishings—a bed, a desk, an old wardrobe.
The air was filled with a long-sealed smell. Sunlight came through the small window, showing dancing dust particles.
Everything here was exactly the same as the last time I'd visited.
I walked to the desk and pulled out the chair to sit down.
On the desk was the book he'd loved most when he was alive. I opened it—inside was a maple leaf bookmark I'd made myself.
I unconsciously pulled open the bottom drawer, where Grayson used to keep his diary and draft notebooks.
Sure enough, there were several thick notebooks in the drawer.
I picked up the top one. The cover had yellowed, and the pages looked fragile.
But when I opened it, my breath caught sharply.
The handwriting inside was fresh, the ink not yet dry.
It was a thin, sharp script—seventy or eighty percent similar to the handwriting I remembered from Grayson, but with an unfamiliar coldness and ruthlessness.
I flipped through page by page. What was recorded wasn't a diary, but scattered fragments.
"Keira Winslow, likes to go to luxury stores on Fifth Avenue on Tuesday afternoons."
"Isabelle Winslow, has afternoon tea with Elia Lancaster at the Plaza Hotel every Wednesday."
"Jared Montclair, cedar-scented cologne, mild germaphobe, habitually turns the ring on his left ring finger during meetings."
My hands began to tremble uncontrollably. My heart pounded wildly in my chest, almost jumping out of my throat.
These records were detailed to the point of being chilling.
The person recording them was like a shadow lurking in the dark, spying on the lives of everyone around me.
And on the last page, there was just one simple line, like a cold judgment.
"Those who hurt Sloane all deserve to die."
The notebook slipped from my trembling hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Jared wasn't crazy.
Grayson... he really was still alive.