When someone like him chooses to show his hand, the outcome is already determined.

“Thank you for not kicking me out right away. I suppose it’s for the sake of The Wanderer. I’ve always been helping you, just so that today you could help me. In fact, helping others is helping oneself—this saying applies to both you and me. I understand you very well, Uncle Alan. All these years, you’ve only done one thing: trying to wake Aunt up. Compared to that, nothing else matters. But my classmate Fiona Bennett doesn’t understand this. She thinks that figuring out the truth behind Susan Wright’s death is the most important thing. She’s always a step behind, never quite in sync, and only now, nine years later, does she want to understand what kind of person her good friend, my good classmate, your good daughter Susan Wright was. But I knew nine years ago.”

Matthew Mitchell took out two sheets of paper and handed them to Adrian Wright.

“You recognize your daughter’s handwriting, don’t you? This is a letter she wrote before she died.”

After reading the letter, Adrian Wright visibly deteriorated. Even though he had long suspected that Shirley Wright’s death was caused by Susan Wright, seeing Susan Wright admit it in her own handwriting still struck him with a dizzying, crushing blow.

“I did a little investigation and I believe Susan Wright wasn’t lying. Uncle Alan, I’ve always been thorough in what I do, and I never do anything I’m not sure of. Just like back then, I thought that as long as the tragic story of the The Wright Family family got out, there would definitely be many kind-hearted people willing to donate.”

Matthew Mitchell leaned forward slightly, wearing a sincere expression.

“You remember which article it was that made everyone start donating, right? The title was ‘If Fate Is Wrong, What Can We Do?’ If people found out that your two daughters didn’t simply die of illness, but that there was another reason, would they still think fate was to blame, or would they see it as retribution? Wouldn’t their sympathy for your family be greatly diminished? Would so many people still donate to you? Wouldn’t some of those who already donated want their money back?”

Adrian Wright’s expression changed.

“That Fiona Bennett, she’s here to investigate how Susan really died, isn’t she? What if I call the police right now and say that Susan was poisoned? I already have a clear suspect.”

Adrian Wright stared at Matthew Mitchell, then fished his phone out of his pocket.

“Go ahead and call the police if you want, but you need to understand something. Even if your ridiculous suspicion turns out to be true and I get arrested, so what? The donations will still disappear. The The Wright Family story was originally a pure tragedy, a family of complete victims. But as soon as people realize the truth is much more complicated, their enthusiasm for donating will fade. What you want isn’t for me to be arrested, or to avenge Susan Wright, but to wake Aunt up—even if there’s only a one percent chance, isn’t that right?”

“You’re threatening me with just this?”

“Yes. This alone is enough, Uncle Alan.”

Matthew Mitchell took Adrian Wright’s phone and entered a number.

“When Fiona Bennett comes to see you, please call this number.”

3

Using the number left in Susan Wright’s medical records at Wright Memorial Hospital, Fiona Bennett got in touch with Adrian Wright.

She rang the doorbell and waited quite a while before the door finally opened.

“You’re Susan Wright’s father, right? I’m Fiona Bennett, I called you yesterday. We actually met nine years ago.”

Adrian Wright’s face was furrowed, and even without any particular expression, it was etched with the hardships and bitterness of life. He let out a low sigh and ushered Fiona Bennett inside.

Fiona Bennett apologized for the intrusion, changed into slippers, and only after sitting on the sofa did she suddenly stand up again and bow deeply to Adrian Wright.

“Let me apologize first. I’m afraid I’ll have to bring up some painful memories today. These letters were found in the flute you gave me after Susan passed away. Here are the copies—please take a look.”

With that, Fiona Bennett took out the The Murder Letter from her bag and handed it to Adrian Wright. Then, starting from when she first met Susan Wright in the preparatory class, she recounted everything: her own avoidance, how Susan Wright collapsed right in front of her, how years later she found the letters in the flute, and she didn’t hide Gabriel Adams’s investigation and death either… There was so much to tell, so many shocking details. Fiona Bennett spoke quickly and urgently, but even so, it would take at least an hour to finish.

Adrian Wright listened as she spoke, picked up the letters and read a few pages, then put them down again. His left hand gripped a Nokia phone, his thumb constantly rubbing the casing.

“Miss,” he suddenly interrupted Fiona Bennett, “could you please stop digging into this?”

“Huh? Why?” Fiona Bennett was completely unprepared for this reaction from Susan Wright’s father. Maybe William Williams had already told him a lot, but this response was just too strange—after all, she was talking about his own daughter’s death!

“Either you leave now,” Adrian Wright said.

Fiona Bennett stared wide-eyed.

“Uncle Alan, Susan Wright was murdered. I already know who the killer is!”

Adrian Wright rested a hand on his forehead, his eyelids drooping, and let out a long, muffled sound from his throat—half a howl, half a deep sigh. He lowered his hand and glanced at the tightly closed bedroom door, then his gaze returned to Fiona Bennett.

“I’ve guessed it too. Susan Wright’s death wasn’t that simple. Do you know why I’m not interested in finding out the real culprit?”

“Is it… related to Shirley Wright? I know William Williams came to see you. He told me some things.”

“I’m going to have a cigarette.” Adrian Wright lit a Red Double Happiness and took a hard drag.

“I always liked my elder daughter more. Susan Wright was too obedient, too calculating—I always knew that. After Shirley was gone, I had no choice but to put Susan Wright through college. She did so well on the exams, there was no reason to hold her back, right?”

Adrian Wright took several more fierce puffs, and in no time, half the cigarette was gone. He exhaled thick clouds of smoke, shrouding his face in a haze. As the cigarette glowed and dimmed, memories resurfaced in his mind.

“About a month before Susan Wright died, she spent a few days in the hospital. She told me it was nothing, but I felt something was off and worried about her health, so I went to the hospital myself to check her records. That’s when I saw the test slip for parasite eggs. Maybe it’s because I always felt there was something wrong with her at heart, so I immediately suspected her. But suspicion is one thing—I couldn’t really believe it. After all, they were sisters by blood. At that time, I kept telling myself it couldn’t be, but I rushed to the school to see her, didn’t waste a minute. But when I saw her, I didn’t dare ask. How could I? Just go up and ask, ‘Did you kill your sister?’ I just watched her from a distance, thinking, this is my own flesh and blood. It was lunchtime, I found her in the cafeteria and followed her. She didn’t go back to the dorm, but entered a teaching building. She even got into an argument with a classmate. She let her true self slip for a moment, and I wasn’t surprised at all—that’s just who she was, she never changed all these years. What was there left to doubt? I didn’t need to fool myself anymore—she was capable of such things. I really wanted to rush up and slap her, to ask her why she was so cruel. I wanted to hit myself even more—after all, I raised her.”

At this point, Adrian Wright’s face was flushed red. He stopped, veins bulging on his neck, breathing heavily. Fiona Bennett didn’t dare say a word; the air in the living room seemed to freeze. She thought Adrian Wright would silently weep for this tragic past, but in the end, he didn’t. He slowly calmed down—or rather, it was more like a balloon deflating, shrinking from its former fullness into a wrinkled heap. His face was already lined with wrinkles, and once the energy that supported him was gone, he became a thoroughly old man.

Adrian Wright leaned back on the sofa, the helplessness he felt back then once again flooding his whole being, drowning him. This is fate—inescapable, irresistible. All he could hold onto with all his strength was just a little, just a little. The rest was beyond his control.

“After the argument, she saw me and asked why I was there. I didn’t say a word and just left. This daughter of mine—I brought her into this world, she’s my sin, the karma I created in a past life, come to be repaid in this one. I can’t handle this child anymore, so I’ll just leave it to heaven. So, whatever happened to her afterwards was retribution.”

“But… she was still your own flesh and blood.” Fiona Bennett didn’t know what else to say.

Adrian Wright waved his hand, as if he especially disliked hearing that phrase.

“Flesh and blood? Did she ever treat Shirley as her sister? Did she ever treat Beatrice Collins as her mother? What family ties are left?”

A chill ran through Fiona Bennett’s heart. Adrian Wright had mentioned Beatrice Collins—what did he mean by that? She knew that Susan Wright’s mother had been bedridden in a vegetative state for years. Could that also be related to Susan Wright?

A wave of dread swept over Fiona Bennett. What kind of person was the now-dead Susan Wright, really? She didn’t even dare to think further.