Chapter 51 The truth
VICTORIA
“What did you say?" My father asked in a whisper, his eyes widening as he leaned closer.
I gripped my hands, biting my lips in nervousness and fear. I slowly raised my head and stared boldly into my father's blazing eyes before parting my lips.
“Mom's diary. I have my mom's diary with me,” I replied.
Dad blinked several times as he gaped at me with a dropped jaw.
After a long stretch of silence and shock, he jerked his head back, let out a sigh, and ran his hand through his thin hair, cursing in low tones.
I wasn't sure if it was a curse since I couldn't understand what he was saying under his breath.
“Why?" He finally asked, “Why did you take it and how did you know it was there?”
I raised my head and faced my father.
“I need to find out the truth," I replied.
He leaned into the chair, frowning.
“What truth?" He asked in a dark, rage-filled voice.
I took a deep breath and parted my lips to continue, refusing to give up.
“The truth about mom's death," I paused and waited for the horror to sweep past his eyes before continuing.
“She was murdered, wasn't she?” I added. A grave silence fell over our heads, followed by grave horror.
My throat tightened as I watched him closely. He didn't move, blink, or react. He just stared at me vaguely, his lips pressed together, his hand gripping tight onto the glass, and his eyes… his eyes remained as they were when I broke the news to him. Dark and blazing. No sign of shock. No flicker of horror. No dashing of guilt or pain.
The silence was heavy, so heavy that I wished a bird would fly into the garden and chirp. Even the air seemed to keep its distance from us.
Why isn't he reacting or saying a thing? With his eyes on me, goosebumps couldn't help but wash over my skin.
I wanted to repeat the same words, but my lips refused to part. The fear that I had pushed away right from the beginning had finally engulfed me and was breaking me down, forcing me to submit to its manipulative claws.
A sharp crack pierced through the air and finally broke the silence.
I gasped and jumped from my seat, not expecting the crack.
My eyes darted to the glass of wine in my father's hand, and they widened when I saw blood mix with the wine that flowed out through the crack in the glass.
“Dad, you're hurt!" I gasped and reached for a napkin.
He jerked his hand away from me when I made to grab his bleeding hand.
His eyes shifted to my face, and he glared at me in a deathly way before getting up from the seat.
He picked up a napkin and dabbed it over the cut in his hand before spinning for the garden’s exit route.
My heart stilled, and my belly became hollow as I watched him move away from me.
“Father!" I snapped with a tightened chest.
His steps froze, and he looked back, that anger still in his eyes.
“You haven't… answered my question," I muttered.
He stared at me for a few seconds, then turned around and walked away without another word.
I sighed and slumped down into a chair, running my hand through my hair in frustration.
I needed to get the truth out of him to catch that man as soon as I could.
“Why is he being so stubborn over this? I'm only doing it for mom?" I whispered and groaned loudly in annoyance.
I looked up at his window and stared at it, waiting for the curtains to move, but they didn't, which meant that he wasn't in the room.
I darted my eyes towards the study and noticed movements in it.
I grabbed the glass of wine, gulped it down, and sprang up, then began to march out of the garden.
Whatever I wanted, I would get it today, and nothing would stop me.
“Your father is in his study," the maid who opened the door said.
"I know,” I forced a smile as I headed up the stairs.
The closer I got to the door, the faster my heart raced.
I took a deep breath, wasted a minute or so before placing a soft knock on the door.
To my surprise, my father's grumpy voice ushered me in. I took a step back and hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should just go in or knock again to confirm that the ‘come in’ was for me.
I shook off the doubts and fear that gripped me then stretched out my trembling hand for the knob.
The door creaked as I pulled it open. I took a deep breath, forced my feet in, and closed the door as quietly as possible.
My heart skipped when I looked up and found my father at the bookshelf, his back turned to me.
“Father?" I called in a shaking voice.
I paused what he was doing and turned around. His eyes have softened, and the anger seems to be replaced by a longing for something I couldn't place.
I remained close to the door, guilt throbbing inside of me.
The cut on his palm was covered with a small adhesive bandage, and in his hand was a book. Not just any kind of book, but my mom's crime thriller.
My eyes were fixed on the book as I stood there, waiting for him to speak.
“The diary… You should have asked me for it. Besides, it's not like it'll be of any help since it barely has any information,” my father said, and my belly knotted.
“Then you must have read it," I whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked over to the desk and slumped into his chair.
“Well, it did help me," I continued and began to walk towards him in slow steps.
“I found the man," I said.
His brows furrowed, and his eyes darkened as he leaned forward.
“The man?"
I nodded and took out my phone, then clicked the picture I had taken before dropping the phone on the table.
“That diary helped me find where he lived. Turns out he's the serial killer that I'd been searching for," I muttered.
Father's jaw dropped as he scrolled through the pictures.
“That's not possible. It was him," he whispered when he got to one of the pictures.
“What's wrong? Do you suddenly agree now?" I asked.
I could barely speak as tears filled my eyes.
My father raised his head. The horror I had been searching for lurked in his eyes.
“This finger…” he began. “Was it found in his place?"
I nodded my head. " Yes”
He gasped loudly and threw his head back, fist tightening.
I glanced at the ring on my father's finger, and my eyes dimmed. It looked ridiculously similar to the one on the finger.
There was no way…
“Father? What is going on?" I whispered, my voice grave.
My father looked up, eyes red, face puffy, and lips trembling in rage.
“That finger… belongs to your mom.”