The room was pitch-black and silent, the only light coming from the candle Rosie held. Her face was tense, her ears picking up the sound of her own heartbeat.
The enemy was in the dark, while she was exposed. One wrong move could mean her end.
Rosie didn’t rush to raise her revolver. Instead, she used the puffed-up cuffs of her mutton-leg sleeves to conceal the gun, pulling the sleeve taut to hide it.
This would slow her draw, but it gave her the advantage of surprise. If an enemy approached recklessly, it would be her turn to act.
The room’s layout was far more cluttered than the dining hall, filled with bookshelves and several haphazardly placed high stools.
Thud—thud—.
A sound came from the right front. Rosie didn’t immediately turn or draw her gun, wary of a trap, only glancing toward the noise with her peripheral vision.
The candlelight’s range was limited, revealing only vague outlines in the warm orange glow.
It was her three-pronged candelabra. Had Donahue already been killed?
In that moment, Rosie’s thoughts wavered. At the same time, a loud crash rang out as a bookshelf to her right collapsed without warning.
Her pupils contracted. Ignoring noble decorum, the long legs beneath her dress moved swiftly, retreating backward.
“Bang!”
The bookshelf hit the floor, kicking up dust. The candle flame flickered unsteadily from the air pressure, and in the wavering light, a man’s face emerged from the darkness.
Around thirty, with deep-set features, bloodshot blue eyes, and a small mustache.
Who else but Donahue Bobby?!
Was he the killer? Or had he, like Jesse Holmes, lost his mind?
Her mind raced with thoughts, but reality didn’t pause.
The candelabra was a distraction, the bookshelf a feint. When the attack missed, Donahue grabbed a nearby stool and hurled it mercilessly at the retreating girl.
Too late to dodge, Rosie threw her candle at him in desperation while shielding her head with her arm.
A dull pain spread from her arm where the heavy object struck. Rosie grunted, no time to cry out. Through the orange streak of the candle’s arc, her misty blue eyes caught Donahue picking up a splintered board, his bloodshot eyes blazing as he charged at her, panting heavily.
“Demon, I’ll kill you!”
Demon? Was he hallucinating?
Regardless, his naked killing intent was real. In a life-or-death moment, Rosie raised the revolver hidden in her right hand, gripped it with both hands, and pulled the trigger.
“Bang!”
The hammer struck the primer, the scent of gunpowder filled the air, and the muzzle flash tore through the darkness, illuminating the girl’s delicate face.
The recoil jolted her hands, nearly making her lose her grip.
“Bang, bang!”
The muzzle flashed again, two more shots fired, accompanied by the man’s agonized scream.
“Hiss—ah!!!”
The bullet’s trajectory curved upward, not a straight shot. Of Rosie’s three shots, one hit, thanks to Donahue’s proximity and a bit of luck.
The bullet struck his left thigh, blood gushing out. The candle lay at his feet, its light reflecting on his paper-white face. Only his bloodshot eyes still burned with murderous intent.
“Dem…on.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Ignoring his wounded leg, he lunged at Rosie recklessly.
“Bang, bang!”
Her last shred of hope shattered. Bullets fired mercilessly, leaving a hole in Donahue’s forehead.
“Thud.”
His body collapsed with a muffled sound. Less than two meters away, the girl’s legs gave out, and she slumped to the ground.
Tension, excitement, fear, confusion—chaotic thoughts flooded Rosie’s mind.
The rusty scent of blood filled her nose. Looking ahead, her unfocused gaze slowly cleared. She had killed someone.
The realization hit, and her entire body began to tremble uncontrollably.
She had killed. She had killed Donahue Bobby!
A wave of nausea surged, and she couldn’t hold it back. Propping herself up with one hand, she retched.
Tears and snot flowed uncontrollably, a physical reaction to her mind’s extreme rejection of her actions.
This… this was unavoidable. Donahue had gone mad, he tried to kill her, she… she…
No, why had Donahue suddenly lost his mind?
Was there something wrong with this room?
Rosie gripped her revolver tightly, not yet standing, when a cold sensation pressed against the back of her head. No gun could feel as cold as the man’s words behind her.
“Game over, Miss Moulton.”
…
A toppled bookshelf, broken chairs, and a still-warm corpse lay beside a candle that had ignited debris, its flame spreading slowly.
A girl sat on the floor, a man holding a gun to the back of her head.
Herman Rhys?
Why was he here?
In an instant, Rosie’s mind raced. She even suspected he was in cahoots with Donahue, luring her here to dispose of her body.
But she quickly dismissed the thought. Donahue’s actions showed a desire to kill her that outweighed his own safety. If they were partners, their goals would align, and Herman would have shot her already instead of talking.
If there was a conversation, there was value. What did he want?
Rosie pursed her lips, choosing not to negotiate yet but to explain first.
“Mr. Rhys, Donahue Bobby went mad and attacked me relentlessly. I had to… do this to protect myself.”
“Self-defense?”
“Hah, so Miss Moulton is the victim here?”
Herman chuckled, responding carelessly.
Rosie frowned, pursing her lips again. “In a way, yes.”
“Hahaha, haha.”
Herman laughed like a maniac, then suddenly pressed the gun harder against her head, his voice cold. “Miss Moulton, no tricks. Drop the gun.
Or I’ll kill you now.”
His tone held no pretense. Rosie gritted her teeth and tossed the revolver far away.
“Donahue Bobby went mad? No, I don’t think so. He just caught the killer.”
“Miss Moulton, look up.”
Following Herman’s words, Rosie raised her head, her gaze falling on the room’s environment, which she hadn’t had time to examine during the fight.
In the center of the room, a portrait of a woman hung on the wall.
Soft golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, her ruby-red eyes sparkling, her skin glowing like moonlight. Beneath a high nose, her pale lips were slightly pursed, exuding a cold yet alluring aura.
Rosie’s entire body trembled uncontrollably. This woman was the one who had killed her in the classroom!
At that moment, Herman’s voice cut through space and time, coming from behind her.
“Isn’t the woman in the painting you,
Rosie Moulton?”
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