Chapter 215
Daisy hurled her phone at the thick carpet with a dull thud.
Hatty stood at a distance, eyes on her nose, nose on her heart, as if she'd seen nothing, heard nothing.
After a long moment, Daisy retrieved her phone and dialed a number.
"Grandfather... I'm doing very well here. Fred... he's been so good to me. He was worried I wouldn't be comfortable, so he specially assigned a secretary to look after me... No, no, he's just extremely busy with work. Don't worry. I'd like to stay a few more days and keep him company."
As long as the Stuart and Taylor families maintained their connection, she had plenty of ways to stay.
Night deepened. The rain showed no signs of letting up.
A black Bentley turned silently into a dilapidated district.
Street lamps cast dim light here. Buildings crumbled in decay—a world apart from the glittering prosperity just miles away.
The car finally stopped before an unremarkable corner coffee shop.
The shop's wooden sign had grown mottled with age, its lettering faded from rain erosion. A small "Closed" sign hung on the door.
Liam got out and opened an umbrella for Frederick in the back seat.
Frederick, dressed in a black suit, ignored the umbrella and walked straight into the rain.
He pushed open the creaking wooden door.
Inside, the lighting was dim. Several burly men in tank tops were playing cards.
They glanced up when Frederick entered, then lowered their heads again as if they'd seen nothing.
Past the noisy front room lay another world entirely.
A long, narrow corridor with bizarrely styled oil paintings lining the walls.
At the corridor's end, two black-suited guards blocked the way.
Seeing Frederick, they asked no questions—just bowed silently and pushed open a heavy iron door.
Beyond it sprawled a massive space like an underground palace.
This was "The Underground."
A gray zone operating outside all rules.
Information, connections, money, and every transaction that couldn't see daylight—all converged and fermented here.
Frederick walked through the crowd without a sideways glance, heading for a private room in the deepest section.
The door stood ajar. Inside, no deafening music played. Instead, silence reigned.
A man in a moon-white robe sat before a walnut table, methodically brewing tea.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, features handsome with an almost scholarly air—but the crimson snake tattoo coiling around his left wrist exposed the danger in his bones.
Brandon Bowen, master of "The Underground."
Hearing footsteps, Brandon looked up. Seeing Frederick, he showed no surprise. Instead, he smiled. "Rare visitor. What brings you to my humble establishment?"
Frederick pulled out the chair across from him and sat, tossing a document envelope onto the table.
"I need you to find someone."
Brandon raised an eyebrow. He didn't touch the envelope, instead pushing a freshly brewed cup of green tea toward Frederick.
"Have some tea. Finding people is delicate work. Isn't your man Liam sharper than anyone at this? Why bother me?"
"She's already dead."
Frederick's voice came out heavy through the tea steam. "Fire. No remains."
The smile faded slightly from Brandon's face. Those perpetually cynical peach-blossom eyes narrowed, finally catching the scent of serious business.
"I see."
His fingertip tapped lightly on the walnut tabletop—tap, tap. "Police, coroners, layer upon layer of checkpoints. Once conclusions are drawn, they're set in stone. You want me to pry open a crack in that stone for you?"
Frederick didn't answer the question, just pushed the envelope to the table's center.
Only then did Brandon reach out, leisurely picking it up.
He didn't rush to open it. Instead, he refilled Frederick's tea.
"Let's be clear—you know my rules." Brandon leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed.
"I just dig things up. Whether I unearth gold or bones, pleasant surprises or nasty shocks—that's beyond my control. You sure you want me digging?"
"Dig." That's all Frederick said. He lifted his teacup. The scalding tea went down his throat without making him flinch once.
Brandon shrugged and finally broke the envelope's seal.
Inside were several papers and two photographs.
One photo had yellowed, its corners worn—clearly years old.
It showed a little girl about seven or eight, wearing a sun-faded dress. She looked at the camera with the timid wariness of a startled fawn—clean but stubborn.
The other was recent, in color.
The woman in it looked around twenty, with waterfall-length hair and smiling, crescent eyes. She was turned to the side, laughing, sunlight washing over her face and gilding her in soft radiance.
Her features had matured, shedding childhood shyness and fear. She was strikingly beautiful—bright yet gentle.
Brandon's gaze settled on the color photograph.
His hand holding the photo froze.
The lazy smile that had been on his face a second ago quietly vanished the instant he registered the woman's features.
His brow furrowed involuntarily.
This face was too familiar.
Not that generic, easily confused kind of familiarity.
Where had he seen her?
Brandon's mind raced through countless faces—the glassy-eyed at bars, the desperate at casinos, the knife-behind-smiles at deal tables... but none seemed right.
The smile on this face was too clean. Clean in a way that clashed violently with the world he inhabited.
The private room fell silent except for the patter of rain outside.
Frederick sat across from him, expressionless, but those unfathomable eyes never left Brandon.
When he saw Brandon's gaze linger on that photograph too long—to the point of rudeness—the atmospheric pressure around him began dropping at a visible rate.
"Seen enough?"
The icy voice shattered the silence, carrying a barely perceptible, sharp possessiveness.
Brandon snapped back to awareness. He looked up and met Frederick's eyes—eyes brewing a storm.
He paused, then let out a low laugh.
He waved the photograph, tone full of teasing. "Mr. Stuart, really? This petty?"
He held the photo up to the light, examining it carefully again, clicking his tongue in wonder. "Though I can see why you're on edge. She really is a beauty. I just looked twice, and you're acting like you want to gouge my eyes out?"
Frederick's hand under the table clenched, knuckles tight.
He ignored Brandon's teasing, just stared at that photograph. The woman smiled so brilliantly—like a beam of light that would never extinguish.
But that light had already vanished from his world.
Brandon set down the photo, expression turning serious.
"Tell me. What do you need me to do?"
Frederick's gaze lifted from the photograph. He forcibly suppressed the turbulence in his eyes, returning to his usual cold hardness.
"Her name is Beatrice Jennings."
"When she was eight, somewhere around the Riverside City area, she was passed around until she ended up at an orphanage in Silverwave City."