Chapter 239

Chapter 239

Arthur walked over and glanced down, then crouched to lift the corner of another wrapped bundle. He looked at it for a few seconds, stood up, took out his phone and snapped a few photos, then laid the tarp back over it.

"It's connected to them," he said.

Patrick nodded and smoothed the corner of the tarp back into place, making it look the way they'd found it.

They stayed in the warehouse another ten minutes or so, and when they were satisfied there was nothing else worth finding, they left the way they came. The metal door clanged shut behind them — louder than it seemed in the quiet of the warehouse district — but there was no one around at that hour.

The drive back was quiet for a long time. Arthur kept his eyes on the road, fingers resting on the steering wheel, tapping it lightly every now and then. Patrick sat in the passenger seat with his face turned toward the window, watching the streetlights that had already come on, their glow sliding across the glass in long, drifting streaks.

"When you used to look into things like this," Patrick asked, "was it always like this?"

"More or less," Arthur said. "Sometimes messier."

"And then what? After you figured it out?"

Arthur was quiet for a moment. "Depends how close to home it is. If it involves you directly, you handle it yourself. If it's someone else's business, you hand it off to whoever needs to have it."

Patrick didn't ask anything else. The car kept moving.

When they parted ways at the intersection, Arthur said through the window: "I'll send that list and the photos to the cultural relics bureau back home." Patrick nodded from where he stood on the curb. He didn't say thank you, and Arthur didn't wait for it — he raised the window, turned the corner, and was gone.

Patrick stood at the intersection for a moment, then turned and walked toward home.

Riley had been at the villa for three days.

The wound on her right arm was healing well. The bullet had passed through cleanly without hitting bone, and the swelling had gone down a lot over the past few days. When they changed the dressing, she could see the edges of the wound already showing new pink tissue growing in.

She spent most of her time in bed. There wasn't much she could do with one hand — turning pages was slow, and scrolling on her phone meant using her left thumb.

Sometimes she'd get on Weibo and post updates telling her fans she was working on songs. It was enough to ease their worrying a little.

After their conversation that day, Winslet hadn't come back, but someone brought her three meals a day without fail.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, the door opened and Winslet walked in. He was wearing a light-colored shirt, sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms, a cup of coffee in his hand. He sat down in the chair and glanced at the bowl of soup on the nightstand, barely touched.

"Not to your taste?"

"It's fine," Riley said. "Just not very hungry."

Winslet nodded, took a sip of his coffee, leaned back in the chair, and watched the shadows of the trees moving across the window paper.

Riley looked at his profile for a moment. "That fake silverware," she asked, "did they get their hands on it?"

"They did," Winslet said. "They've already figured out it's a replica. But that bought enough time — the real piece is where it needs to be."

Riley nodded. She looked down at her bandaged right arm and tried curling her fingers. They bent, but the strength wasn't fully back yet.

"In the alley that day," Winslet said, "when you saw them coming for you — what were you thinking?"

Riley looked up at him. His eyes were still on the shadows of the trees across the window paper, not on her. She was quiet for a moment. "I was thinking that if I died right there, no one would remember me."

Winslet pulled his gaze from the window and settled it on her face.

"Your fans remember you," he said.

Riley looked at him — at those eyes that seemed so calm in the fading afternoon light — and didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth, almost asked: what about you? do you remember me? But no sound came out, and she closed it again.

Winslet stood and walked to the door. When he pushed it open, the outside air came in carrying the smell of soil and grass from the yard. He stood in the doorway without turning around. "Once you're healed, there's a lot you can do."

The door closed softly behind him.

The day Riley got her stitches out, the doctor worked quickly — scissors running along the gauze, peeling it back layer by layer to reveal the closed wound beneath.

It wasn't a long scar. The skin around it was faintly pink. The doctor dabbed it with antiseptic, said "don't strain it," and packed up and left.

Riley stood by the window and moved her right arm. There was still a dull ache when she raised it to shoulder height.

She went through a few flexing motions, feeling the muscle slowly come back online, the soreness fading a little with each stretch.

She put on a clean jacket and went outside.

In the yard, Winslet was sitting under a tree in a thin gray jacket, leaning back in a bamboo chair.

He turned his head when he heard the door, his gaze passing briefly over her right arm.

"Good to go?"

"Good to go." Riley sat down in the chair beside him.

She looked at him. "I've taken a role."

Winslet didn't turn his head, but the fingers resting on the armrest shifted slightly.

"It's a long shoot," Riley said. "The production needs a wardrobe person, and I want to bring Rachel. She made a gown for me before — it turned out beautifully. Her feel for fabric and cut is better than anyone else I know. I've already talked to them. They're on board."

Winslet listened without responding right away. After a few seconds: "Have you told Rachel yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to tell you first."

"It's your call. You don't need to clear it with me."

Riley turned to look at him. The light fell across the side of his face, tracing the line of his nose from brow to tip, the sharp angle of his jaw. She held his gaze for a moment. "But I wanted to."

"Because Rachel would be leaving Edmund to go out on this. That part involves you."

Winslet gave a small nod. Riley had been through enough. A small ask like this — he'd give her that.

The two of them sat in the yard. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and scattered across the ground in small shifting patches, swaying with the breeze.

Rachel was at her studio drafting when Riley called. A few sketches were spread out on the desk — early drafts for a custom gown.