“Morning, Mr. Rhys.”
Bound by her persona, Rosie replied politely, then turned to the bodyguard, greeting, “Good morning, Mr. Sandek.”
“Hmph.”
Before the bodyguard could respond, a soft chuckle came from someone nearby.
Inhale… exhale… don’t get mad, don’t get mad.
Rosie pretended not to hear.
“Hm.”
Dennis Sandek nodded slightly, his attitude returning to its usual lukewarm state.
Rosie didn’t mind and turned to the closed dining hall door, asking, “Have you two gone in to check? How’s Hannah…”
Herman answered, shrugging.
“Not yet. Mr. Sandek and I arrived at the same time.
He wanted to go in right away, but I stopped him.
With the situation unclear, it’s better to wait until everyone’s here.
Saves us from getting blamed for something—like a drunk’s mess you can’t wash off.”
Both approaches were reasonable, just shaped by personal biases.
Though their time together was short, Rosie had a great impression of her “best friend,” Hannah Carter.
Selfishly, she, like the bodyguard, wanted to barge in and check on Hannah’s safety.
But she couldn’t find the right words to counter Herman Rhys.
The girl’s delicate brows furrowed, like a light April mist tinged with worry.
“But now there are three of us, and with Miss Carter inside, that’s half the group.
If Miss Moulton is worried about her friend, it’s fine to go in now.”
Hm, why’s he suddenly agreeing?
Rosie found it odd and glanced at the man who spoke.
Herman’s lips curved slightly, his light brown eyes burning with intensity under dark brows, staring at her.
When she looked his way, he didn’t flinch but raised an eyebrow, exuding a roguish charm.
“Does this satisfy Miss Moulton?”
The man’s slightly fawning tone sent shivers down Rosie’s spine.
Was she… being openly courted by a man?
It was hard to describe Rosie’s feelings—like someone had forcibly stuffed a slab of greasy meat into her mouth, and before she could react, poured in a gulp of full-fat milk, forcing her to swallow it down.
The oily sensation was utterly nauseating.
Worse, her years as Lin Yu, a man, made the now-reincarnated Rosie Moulton instinctively recoil from such flattery.
Rosie forced a smile, her tone stiff.
“Let’s go in and check together, then.”
With that, she ignored Herman, turned quickly, took a step forward, placed her hand on the door, and pushed hard.
Whoosh—
A wave of heat, like a July summer breeze, hit her, tousling the fine strands of hair on her forehead.
Muggy, hot—that was Rosie’s first impression.
Then, an indescribable smell assaulted her nose.
Salty, bloody, musky, foul.
Four distinct odors blended together, making her want to gag.
Rosie’s body, pampered as a baron’s daughter, had never encountered such a stench.
Her physical reaction was immediate—she retched.
She raised a hand to wipe the tears welling in her eyes, her misty blue gaze lifting to the dining table ahead.
Her cherry-pink lips parted, and fragmented words slipped out from her pearly teeth.
“Han… nah?”
Directly ahead, the once-pristine tablecloth was dotted with bloodstains like plum blossoms.
At the first seat to the right of the head, a girl in a light blue dress sat, hands clasped in a fist at her chest, as if praying or repenting.
But what she was doing couldn’t be gleaned from her expression, for above the lace-trimmed collar, there was nothing.
Only a crimson line and congealed blood marked her pale neck.
The sudden sight hit Rosie like a tidal wave.
Her head spun, her tongue went numb, and she couldn’t utter a word.
There was no doubt—this headless corpse was Hannah, still wearing the dress from when they met.
The girl who seemed to glow yesterday was now forever separated by life and death.
Her legs gave out, her thighs buckled, and Rosie stumbled backward.
Suddenly, a large hand grabbed her arm, roughly pulling her half-falling body upright.
Still dazed, Rosie looked up, the candlelight from above casting shadows.
She could only make out the man’s rigid, tense jawline.
Step.
The sound of footsteps.
“Mr. Sandek, please control your emotions. In this situation, we must wait for the others before acting.”
The voice above her, which she somewhat disliked, was Herman’s.
“Herman Rhys…!”
Dennis Sandek’s voice was low, hoarse, like a volcano on the verge of erupting.
The atmosphere grew tense, ready to snap.
No, Lin Yu, do you really think you’re some baron’s delicate daughter?
You’ve died once—what’s there to fear?
Three men here, and you’re the only one who can’t even stand steady?!
Snapping out of the shock from her first “crime scene,” Rosie gritted her teeth, shook off the hand supporting her, pursed her lips, and stood firm.
“Thank you.”
Rosie tilted her head slightly, thanking the man who had steadied her.
Herman glanced down at the girl, but before he could speak, a piercing scream came from behind.
“Eek—!!!”
At the open door, Bev Hardy screamed, stumbled back two steps, turned, and buried her face in the chest of the man beside her, trembling as if walking naked in the dead of winter.
Dwight Nell fared slightly better, but not by much.
As if infected by his mistress, his body trembled, his cane unsteady, his eyes half-open, half-closed, wanting to look but too afraid to.
“…What happened?”
The old gentleman was clearly rattled, his usual composure gone.
Recovering from the shock of her “best friend’s” death, another complex, more painful emotion surged in Rosie.
Regret, remorse.
If she’d been decisive yesterday and left Hannah with the gun or dagger for self-defense, would things be different now?
Or earlier, when the situation turned against them, if she’d teamed up with Dennis Sandek—not to control the others but to take Hannah and rush out, to skip writing on that damned parchment and not leave Hannah alone in this room—would it have been better?
The parchment…
She, too, had written Hannah’s name.
Rationally, Rosie knew Hannah’s death was the fault of the unknown killer.
But emotionally, she felt a deep sense of guilt.
Finally, Rosie lifted her head, glanced distantly at the dining table, lowered her eyes, and spoke the cruel truth.
“Hannah Carter… she’s been murdered.”