Chapter 246

Chapter 246

Brandon finally spoke, his voice hoarse from the smoke. "I investigated, but the more I dug, the more wrong it felt."

He stubbed out his cigarette in the car's ashtray and lit another one.

"Twenty years ago, that bloodbath in Riverside City was massive—the case files stacked higher than a person. Eleven members of the Flores family died, but four-year-old Amelia Flores was never found, dead or alive."

Frederick's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.

"But the timeline doesn't match." Brandon flicked ash from his cigarette. "The Flores family was killed in June that year. But I dug up an earlier record—Beatrice was sent to the orphanage in April. Two months before the Flores massacre."

The air inside the car seemed to solidify.

Frederick's gaze sharpened like a bow drawn taut.

"And," Brandon's voice dropped lower, "I got someone to find clearer childhood photos of Amelia, plus some family video footage. She doesn't look like Beatrice. They share some similar features around the eyes, but completely different bone structure. Beatrice isn't Amelia."

The conclusion hit like a stone dropped into deep water.

Frederick's entire constructed narrative about Beatrice—the tragic imagination of a 'survivor seeking blood vengeance'—shattered completely in that moment.

If she wasn't Amelia, then who was she?

"Twenty years ago, it wasn't just the Flores family that got hit."

The street-smart cockiness vanished from Brandon's voice, replaced by a pain buried for years.

"There was another family. Named Bowen. In Silverwave City."

He stared out at the blurred night scene as if looking back through decades of sealed-away time.

"When I was little, our family had it pretty good. My father was a vice president at Everstead Bank, and my mom was a literature professor at Silverwave City University. They loved each other, and they loved me and my sister—she was three years younger than me."

He spoke slowly, as if carefully sketching a faded painting.

"My dad had this scholarly integrity that made him a square peg in the banking world. Later, when the bank had a massive bad debt scandal, someone had to take the fall. My dad was the unlucky bastard they threw under the bus. Once they pinned the embezzlement charges on him, everything collapsed overnight."

"I still remember that night—all those people storming into our house, tearing everything apart. My dad locked himself in his study and never came out again. The next day, they said he'd committed suicide out of guilt."

Frederick listened quietly, imagining the terror and collapse an eight-year-old boy must have experienced that night.

"Then came the massacre."

When Brandon spoke those words, his voice was terrifyingly calm.

"They weren't planning to let any of us survive. My mom grabbed my sister, took my hand, and we ran out the back door. It was raining that night, chaos everywhere in the streets, people running in all directions. My mom told me to run and not look back. I ran, but I couldn't help myself—I looked back..."

His cigarette shook violently, ash falling onto his expensive pants.

"Just that one glance—a car came speeding through. Too many people, too much chaos. When I tried to find them again, there was nothing left but mayhem. My mom and my sister were gone."

Death-like silence filled the car.

Brandon ground the spent cigarette into the ashtray and looked up, his bloodshot eyes staring directly at Frederick.

"After that, I lived on the streets. Got caught by human traffickers, worked in illegal mines, finally made it to the underground scene, and clawed my way up to where I am now. I've been searching for twenty years, trying to figure out who was really pulling the strings back then, and whether my mom and sister are dead or alive."

"When I was investigating Beatrice, I followed the orphanage lead and found a registration photo from when she first arrived. It's blurry, but you can make out the face."

Brandon pulled out his phone, bringing up a photographed image. The screen's glow illuminated an expression more complex than any he'd ever shown.

The photo showed a girl about four or five years old, wearing ill-fitting old clothes, messy hair, eyes filled with terror and confusion.

"My sister's name was Luna Bowen. She had a tiny, tiny mole at the end of her left eyebrow—so small you'd miss it unless you looked carefully."

Brandon's finger pointed to the girl's face in the photo, his voice barely recognizable.

"Beatrice has one too."

Frederick's pupils contracted violently in that instant.

He remembered countless times when Beatrice slept in his arms, how he'd traced every detail of her features.

That extremely faint mole, almost hidden in her eyebrow—he'd seen it.

"My dad was George Bowen, my mom was Gianna Stewart. Before the Jennings family adopted Beatrice, the orphanage had named her 'Hope.' My mom's favorite old-fashioned expression was 'You care for me, and I'll care for you'—she thought it perfectly captured the sentiment of being cherished and remembered, extending that feeling of being wanted and missed."

Brandon tossed his phone aside, buried his hands in his hair, his body trembling slightly with overwhelming emotion.

"Frederick, I don't know if this counts as proof."

"All I know is that I've been searching for them for twenty years."

"Beatrice might very well be my sister who's been missing for twenty years—Luna Bowen."

As his words faded, the entire world went silent.

Frederick leaned back in his seat, feeling his heart being squeezed by an invisible hand.

Brandon Bowen.

Beatrice Jennings.

This was more absurd than any blood vendetta involving the Flores family—and far more complicated.

He looked at Brandon beside him—this man who always carried an air of danger, who seemed to have grown up in street corners and shadows, who habitually pushed himself to the breaking point as if he could flip between life and death at any moment. In that moment, Brandon showed a crack of human vulnerability that was nearly crushing.

After a long pause, Frederick found his voice, each word scraped from deep in his throat.

"Everything you've told me—I'll verify it."

Brandon turned, a spark of light igniting in his bloodshot eyes.

He knew that when Frederick spoke those words, it was as good as done.

The head of the Stuart Group had resources and methods far beyond what someone from the underground could access.

"Frederick..."

"I'll investigate what happened back then." Frederick cut him off. "The bank's bad debts, your father's death, your mother and sister's disappearance. I won't miss a single detail."

Brandon's heart hammered.

All he wanted was the truth, but Frederick wanted vengeance.

"Yes!" Brandon slammed his fist into his palm. "As long as you can uncover what really happened, my life belongs to you from now on!"

"I don't want your life." Frederick's gaze returned to the road ahead. "Until everything comes to light, don't let her get caught up in this mess."

"I understand." Brandon nodded.

He knew better than anyone that revealing the truth too soon wouldn't mean a family reunion for Beatrice—it would be a death sentence.

The atmosphere in the car shifted from crushing tension to an eerie calm.

Brandon seemed to have shed a thousand-pound burden, his entire body relaxing.

He rubbed his protesting stomach, and his face returned to its usual shameless expression.

"So... now that we've finished talking and it's getting dark, and I've been driving all day, could I maybe..."

Frederick shot him a cold glance.

"Get lost."

"Don't be so heartless!" Brandon persisted shamelessly. "This is my first time visiting to... get acquainted, and you won't even feed me? People will think you're abusing old friends."

Frederick started the car.

Brandon thought he was being kicked out and quickly said, "I promise, just one meal, and then I'll leave. I absolutely won't say an extra word!"

The car turned around and headed back the way they'd come.

Brandon paused, then broke into a grin.

When the black SUV stopped outside the courtyard again, Beatrice's anxiety spiked.

She hadn't dared to sleep, pacing around the house with Ray in her arms.

The car door opened, and David got out first, followed by his 'friend' who'd been dragged away earlier.

Beatrice quickly ducked behind the door with the baby, only daring to peek through the crack.

Frederick walked to the garden gate. Sensing movement behind the door, he softened his voice: "Ms. Jenner, it's me."

The gate opened slightly, revealing Beatrice's face, wary and puzzled.

"Mr. Johnson, you..."

"My friend, Brandon Bowen." Frederick stepped aside to introduce the grinning man behind him. "We haven't seen each other in years—he insisted on coming over for dinner."

Brandon immediately stuck his head forward with a smile. "Hello! Nice to meet you—just call me Brandon! Sorry about earlier, I was just kidding around. Didn't scare you, did I?"

Beatrice instinctively glanced at Frederick.

Frederick's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

Beatrice stepped back with the baby, forcing a smile. "No... not at all. If you're friends, please come in."

She moved aside, but couldn't shake her doubts.

David seemed so honest and straightforward—how had he ended up with such a... slick friend?