Chapter 134 He Got into Trouble
That day, Quinley and Mrs. Ginger had plans to hit the early morning market together. But Quinley waited until almost eight and Mrs. Ginger still hadn't shown up.
She tried calling—no answer. Starting to worry, Quinley headed over to Mrs. Ginger's house to check on her.
The gate was wide open. She pushed through and walked right in.
"Mrs. Ginger!"
No response from the yard. Quinley kept walking and spotted an unexpected visitor.
Peter sat on the living room couch in a full suit, looking supremely uncomfortable. Mrs. Ginger was in the kitchen, hunched over her work. Her face looked rough, eyes red and puffy like she'd been crying.
"Hello!" Peter stood up, greeting Quinley.
She'd changed so much that he didn't recognize her at all. But Quinley recognized him instantly.
"Mrs. Ginger, who's this? Some relative of yours?" Quinley asked in her thick local accent as she headed toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Ginger stayed hunched over, focused on cleaning.
"No."
"Want me to kick him out?"
Quinley grabbed Mrs. Ginger's hand. Lily was gone, and the ones who hurt most were the family left behind.
When Mrs. Ginger didn't answer, Quinley took matters into her own hands and walked right up to Peter.
"Sir, if you don't have any business here, you should go. We don't want you here."
Quinley spoke in her accented Mandarin. One hand on her hip, wearing the most basic flip-flops, no makeup, that gnarly scar across her forehead—she looked nothing like her old self.
This was Peter's first time seeing someone like this in Mrs. Ginger's house. He forced an awkward smile.
"I'm a friend of Lily's. We worked at the same company. I'm just here to check on her family." He pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and set it on the coffee table. "Well... I should get going. I'll come back another time when I'm free."
Just as Peter was about to leave, Mrs. Ginger rushed out from the kitchen, grabbed the envelope, and shoved it back at him.
"I don't want it."
"This is just a little something from all of us at work. Please take it."
Peter pushed his glasses up his nose. He wouldn't take it back.
But Mrs. Ginger insisted, trying to force it back into his hands. They stood there at the door—one trying to return it, the other refusing.
"Mrs. Ginger, if he's giving it to you, just take it," Quinley chimed in.
"Yeah, exactly. Please, just keep it."
Peter shoved the money back one more time, then yanked the door open and practically bolted out.
The second he was gone, Mrs. Ginger grabbed several boxes of expensive supplements from the living room and chased after him.
Peter had driven there. As soon as he saw Mrs. Ginger coming after him, he fired up the engine and took off.
Mrs. Ginger couldn't catch up. She stood at the corner of the street, her brow furrowed deep with frustration.
Seeing her like that broke Quinley's heart. She walked over and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Ginger's shoulders from behind.
"Why'd you have to give it back?"
Mrs. Ginger's face suddenly crumpled, tears streaming down. "My daughter's gone. They think if they throw a little money at me, I'll just forgive them? No. I'll never forgive them."
The pain of losing someone—only family could truly understand it. At least she didn't know the real reason Lily had died.
The day Peter returned to Rosewood City, the people Zachary had sent out came back with good news for once.
They said they'd spotted Quinley in a small town about five hundred kilometers from Rosewood City.
"Is the information reliable?"
Zachary went rigid, every muscle tense.
"Mr. Jennings, it's solid. They got photos. Just a side profile, but I'm sending them to you now."
The photo came through. The woman in it wore hiking gear and a face mask—couldn't see much. But her eyes looked so much like Quinley's.
Zachary stared at that photo for a long time. All that dormant blood in his veins suddenly started boiling.
Six months. Over a hundred and eighty days. He'd searched more than two hundred cities. And finally, finally, there was news of Quinley.
He had to see her. Right now.
When Lucas found out, he tried to stop him. "Mr. Jennings, you can't go. That place is too far from Rosewood City, and there's a typhoon coming. It's way too dangerous."
But danger meant nothing to Zachary. He just wanted to find Quinley as fast as possible.
"You stay here. I have to go."
He wouldn't budge.
That night, he threw together a simple bag and set out. Lucas had wanted to come along, but Zachary refused—the two of them together would draw too much attention. Still worried, Lucas arranged for four bodyguards to go with him.
The drive from Rosewood City normally took six hours. But they left right as the typhoon hit. Rain pounded down in sheets. Roads in several towns had collapsed. They had to take detours and alternate routes.
The driver handled the wheel while Zachary sat in the back, eyes fixed straight ahead. His hands were clenched tight, palms sweating.
Just thinking about seeing Quinley soon made his heart race in a way he couldn't even describe.
The trip took about thirteen hours. Everyone was exhausted, but the second they arrived, Zachary wanted to go find her.
The car headed toward a hotel in town. According to their intel, Quinley was staying there.
When Zachary arrived, that person was at the front desk checking out.
"Mr. Jennings, that's her."
The informant pointed at the woman.
Zachary saw her immediately. From behind, she really did look like Quinley. About five-foot-five, slender build, waist-length hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a baseball cap and kept a black mask on the whole time.
"Quinley!"
He couldn't help himself—he shouted.
His voice boomed through the hotel lobby. People turned to look.
The woman turned too. And just like that, with one look, Zachary's heart sank. It wasn't her. Quinley's eyes were never that sharp.
"Ms. Elikin!"
The informant, eager to claim credit, rushed forward and blocked the woman's path.
"Dude, back off or I'm calling the cops."
Her voice was raspy and grating.
Clearly pissed off, she yanked down her mask. Now Zachary could see her face clearly. It was nothing like Quinley's. Not even close.
Crushed by disappointment, Zachary turned and walked away.
"Mr. Jennings, I'm so sorry."
The informant hung his head in apology. Zachary didn't say a word. He got back in the car.
They drove back the way they came—another ten-plus hours on the road. All that hope he'd carried on the way there had turned into pure disappointment.
The car was dead silent. No one dared even breathe too loud.
Outside, rain poured down, lightning flashed, thunder cracked—like the weather was matching Zachary's mood.
"Mr. Jennings, the rain's too heavy. Maybe we should find a place to rest for a bit?"
The driver tried to suggest.
But Zachary wouldn't hear it. "Keep driving."
His order left no room for argument. The driver had no choice but to keep going through the storm.
That night, the rain was absurdly, unreasonably heavy. Like the sky had cracked open and was dumping everything directly onto Zachary's car.
As they drove through a mountain pass, they suddenly hit a landslide. The driver didn't have time to back up before the entire mountainside came sliding down toward them.
Zachary's dark eyes glanced out the window. And then his entire world went black.