Julian Grant tilted his head and glanced at The Vault, noticing her brows gently furrowed as she swallowed hard, trying to ease the dryness in her throat. This action made her look like a hungry ghost reincarnated.

On the other end of the phone, there was a buzzing sound, as if the nurse was arguing with Quinn Foster. The two of them probably already knew each other and were now exchanging their philosophies of life. Quinn Foster felt his professional expertise was being challenged and argued back energetically.

Julian Grant reached out and moved the phone in front of himself, saying, “So, Meredith Stone’s accusation didn’t have much impact on Harold Thornton, at least not on the surface. Although she chose to call the police, she still cared about Harold Thornton’s reputation.”

The nurse stopped arguing with Quinn Foster, walked back to a quiet spot, and replied, “Right, everyone discussed it privately for a while, but the commotion died down soon after. The fact that Dr. Thornton could return safely means the prosecution didn’t press charges in the end, so the rape probably wasn’t real. As for the relationship between Dr. Thornton and Meredith Stone... I think it falls more into the realm of private life, so I can’t really say much about it.”

Criminal offenses and personal conduct are on completely different levels. Meredith Stone spared Harold Thornton’s dignity, and Mrs. Thornton also sounded like a rational and gentle person. Plus, Harold Thornton had a daughter—no matter how you look at it, there’s no reason for him to have committed suicide over this.

So the hypothesis The Vault raised earlier didn’t seem to hold. Could it really have just been a coincidental car accident?

The Vault asked, “During that time, did Harold Thornton really not show any unusual behavior?”

“There shouldn’t have been any,” the nurse hesitated, then said, “Does smoking a lot count? He smoked much more during that period. Before, he was afraid patients wouldn’t like it, so he’d change clothes on time and usually didn’t smell of smoke. But during that time, you could smell strong smoke as soon as you got close to him. I guess he was just tired, under a lot of pressure.”

Julian Grant leaned back, thinking to himself that this was quite an abnormality.

The nurse was silent for a moment, then said awkwardly, “Dr. Foster has been standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at me and sneering sarcastically since just now. Is there some misunderstanding between you two?”

The Vault chuckled and said, “It’s nothing, you can give the phone back to him. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The nurse replied, “Okay.”

The phone was handed back to Quinn Foster, who, with the calm before the storm, asked, “The Vault, where exactly are you? What do you mean by all this? You have to give me an explanation today.”

The Vault reported the address of the hospital she was in.

Quinn Foster’s calm didn’t last long before he exploded: “The Vault, don’t push it! It’s bad enough you treat me like a tool, but now I’m just a tool for handing over the phone? Do you think my time and feelings are that cheap?!”

The Vault said sincerely, “I’ll treat you to dinner. Eighteen dishes and a soup, how about that as an apology?”

Quinn Foster raised his voice at the end: “Don’t try to joke your way out of this! You think it’s over just like that? Let me tell you, I’m a man you can’t afford to reach! Anyway, since I’m already here today, I’m going to see my mentor! Goodbye!”

He hung up with a “snap,” carrying the last bit of pride, as if he was the one in control.

Julian Grant’s mouth twitched. “He’s not coming? What a waste of eighteen dishes.”

The Vault put away her phone and said confidently, “He’ll come.”

Julian Grant: “Are you sure?”

The Vault gave Julian Grant a meaningful look, and for the first time, Julian Grant, who had never been able to read expressions, clearly understood what she meant:

“Don’t you understand how men always say one thing and mean another?”

Something like that.

Julian Grant: “……” Why should he understand? He was clearly the upright and unyielding Julian Grant.

Chapter 94: Motive

An hour later, Quinn Foster still lived up to the “fragrant truth” theory and strode into The Vault’s hospital room with his noble steps.

The sound of him opening and closing the door was extremely loud, venting his anger unreasonably on the innocent door. After entering, he glanced upward, perfectly demonstrating what it meant to look down on everyone.

“The Vault, you’re really too much. Are you deliberately trampling on my goodwill?” he demanded, tossing his coat onto a chair.

The Vault thought for a moment; this line sounded oddly familiar.

Why do people keep putting young men in front of her for her to trample on? How would she know?

The Vault comforted her friend, “I’m treating you to dinner. Eighteen dishes and a soup.”

Since The Vault said she’d wait for Quinn Foster, she had the chef prepare the food later and deliver it fresh. At this moment, the dishes on the table were still steaming. The lids had just been lifted, and only a couple of bites had been taken.

Quinn Foster glanced at her table and thought, this is really extravagant.

A bowl of plain congee, eighteen small side dishes, and a bowl of light tomato and egg soup. The so-called extravagance probably meant even a single serving of pickled vegetables could be divided into ten plates based on knife skills and flavor.

Quinn Foster’s mouth twitched, wishing he could use all his facial features to express his disdain: “This is it??”

Julian Grant saw him deflated, joy written all over his face, almost ready to jump up and applaud.

No one knew when these two started fighting different revolutions, both trading intelligence for combat power.

Suddenly, Quinn Foster’s expression changed. He raised his right hand and said sarcastically, “Good thing I brought a deluxe eel rice on my way here.”

Julian Grant jolted, eyes wide, watching Quinn Foster’s calm expression, finally realizing where he’d always gone wrong.

How could he expect The Vault to treat him to dinner? That was fundamentally the wrong idea. Someone like Quinn Foster, who brings his own dinner when visiting a patient, truly understands The Vault.

So that’s how it is!

Julian Grant nodded thoughtfully.

Lesson learned.

The Vault watched Julian Grant’s ever-changing expression, feeling her own reputation was being unfairly damaged.

What nonsense? Quinn Foster bringing his own dinner was probably because he was so mad he just bought something tasty on the way—it had nothing to do with her!

Quinn Foster tidied up the table, mixed all the pickled vegetables from the small plates together, pushed them in front of The Vault, and then solemnly set down his own takeout box.

So, Quinn Foster ate his plain but “deluxe” eel rice, Julian Grant had his ordinary lobster seafood noodles, and The Vault, with her eighteen imperial side dishes, finished the meal.

Compared to her companions’ simplicity, The Vault couldn’t help but feel tears of happiness welling up.

Night fell quickly. In just over ten minutes, the gloomy sky outside had already turned completely dark.

The Vault sipped the remaining half bowl of congee, gradually getting used to the bland taste. Holding her chopsticks above the bowl, she said, “I still feel there’s something off about Harold Thornton’s death.”

Quinn Foster listened to her and thought for a moment, then commented, “It’s got the flavor of five hundred ducks.”

The Vault: “……”

When he’s happy, he calls her “sweetie,” but when he’s upset, she’s “five hundred ducks.” Is this the wrath of Quinn Foster?

But when Quinn Foster is angry, he doesn’t sound like five hundred ducks, but more like five hundred woodpeckers—“tap tap tap” like a machine gun, leaving people battered. With her current health, The Vault really couldn’t handle him.

Expressionless, The Vault pulled over a tissue and slowly wiped her mouth, pretending she hadn’t heard anything.

After dinner, Quinn Foster was in a slightly better mood. He fished something out of his pocket and said, “It’s not like I didn’t bring a gift. Here, these are for you.”

Julian Grant glanced at it and said, “She’d better not eat candy; it’ll dry out her throat. And why did you buy loose candy? Did you eat some yourself?”

He quickly reached out and took it, recognizing the familiar packaging and recalling the last time The Vault had stolen his evidence: “Orange-flavored… I know this kind, twenty cents each, just enough to make a yuan. How generous of you.”

Quinn Foster leaned back, picking his teeth with a toothpick from his deluxe meal, “I grabbed them from someone else’s office. If you don’t like them, don’t eat them. Why be picky about dessert after dinner?”

“Is this candy famous?” Julian Grant unwrapped one, suspicious, “Why do I feel like I’ve seen it so many times?”

The Vault put down her bowl. “Where did you get it from?”

Quinn Foster glanced at her: “From the teacher’s office, of course.”

The Vault: “You really went to the school?”

Quinn Foster put down the toothpick and took a sip of water. “Since it was close, I stopped by. He’s quite worried about you. Are you really not going to see him? Hey, you used to say you were socially anxious, but you can hang out so comfortably with Julian Grant. Why don’t you want to see the teacher?”

“Heh.” Julian Grant sneered, probably to show his pride and disdain. After all, he represented the universally beloved RMB, so of course he was well-liked.

Julian Grant didn’t want to bother with Quinn Foster anymore. He raised his chin toward The Vault and asked, “You just said there’s something off about Harold Thornton’s case?”