Mrs. Summers lowered her head, her expression dark as she said, “That night, he came over and said he wanted to buy a camera he’d had his eye on for a long time, and asked the old man to hold it for him. The camera was about seventy or eighty percent new, and the old man had refurbished all the broken parts. Normally, it would sell for around ten thousand, but he gave him a three-thousand discount. Still, that was expensive—how could a student afford it? So the old man asked him, ‘Young man, did your parents agree to buy you a camera?’…”

She still remembered that high-spirited young man, a black backpack slung over his shoulder. When he heard this, he smiled, light reflected in his pupils.

“I didn’t ask my parents for money.”

“Then where did you get the money?”

The young man blinked, answering mischievously, “I robbed someone, where else would I get the money?”

The Vault said, “That must have been a joke.”

—“Where did you get that piece of clothing?” “Stole it, where else?”

Young people’s teasing answers to trivial questions didn’t necessarily reflect their true intentions. If Harry Forrest had really planned to rob and kill, he would never have spoken so lightly about it beforehand.

Mrs. Summers’s thin, dry face twitched, and she said hoarsely, “I thought it was a joke too. The old man spoke too quickly, and regretted it as soon as he said it, thinking it might get the young man in trouble. But that night, Harry Forrest really did come with a backpack full of slightly damp money, and paid off the bill.”

Henry Harris placed a hand on her back, then turned to The Vault to explain, “The main issue here is the timing.”

That same night, less than a kilometer from the shop, in a back alley, a reporter was brutally murdered.

Before her death, she had just withdrawn seven thousand yuan from the bank. Upon comparison, it was confirmed to be the same cash Harry Forrest used to pay the bill. The forensic autopsy also confirmed that the time of death matched exactly with Harry Forrest’s movements—he had ample opportunity to commit the crime. There was also a twenty-minute gap in Harry Forrest’s timeline that could not be accounted for. Combined with other witnesses’ testimonies, all evidence pointed to him, and the judge ultimately found him guilty.

Mrs. Summers tried to stand up again, wanting to prove to The Vault, “I… The police asked us at the time, and we didn’t think much, just told them what happened. But we didn’t lie, and we didn’t exaggerate. I was in the shop when they talked that day—I heard it with my own ears! I’m old, half a foot in the grave, I couldn’t do something so against my conscience!”

The Vault lowered her eyelids halfway, her voice heavy: “Harry Forrest said that money was earned by himself.”

Henry Harris let the old lady sit down first, then added, “What can’t be explained is why there was as much as seven thousand yuan.”

Harry Forrest said he had run errands for that reporter twice, but there was no reason he would have received such a high payment, and the company hadn’t received any reimbursement slips from the reporter. So the police didn’t believe him.

The Vault also knew that many of Harry Forrest’s explanations had no evidence to support them, which was why he was convicted of intentional homicide back then.

Everything happened so coincidentally—on that very day, heavy rain poured down, washing away footprints and traces of the killer, leaving the investigation to rely even more on eyewitness testimony.

And now, all the witnesses were dead. Who else could restore the truth of that year?

“We… actually have something to add.”

Several family members of Marcus Carter hesitantly raised their hands.

Henry Harris gestured for them to speak, and signaled to the nearby officer to bring a few more cups of hot water.

The two brothers turned to look at each other, nudging each other with their elbows. After a silent exchange, they finally decided the older brother on the left would speak.

The young man licked his lips, a bit nervous, and said, “Actually… my dad didn’t do it on purpose.”

This “not on purpose” carried a lot of weight. Henry Harris immediately became alert. She walked over to the young man, stopping at a suitable distance, propping one hand on the table to avoid putting too much pressure on him.

“I don’t know for sure, I’m just telling you what my dad used to say—it’s been a long time.”

The young man wiped his nose, recalling and organizing his words as he spoke slowly: “That year, I graduated from college and came back to look for a job. I couldn’t settle anything, so I was a bit frustrated. My dad and I were talking on the second-floor balcony—it was already past nine at night. It was raining heavily outside, the wind was blowing rain in. I was sitting on the bed, my dad was standing alone by the window getting wet—he wasn’t in a good mood either.”

Because it had happened so long ago, his account wasn’t very organized.

“We were just talking. Then he accidentally saw a man running out of the alley. The man was wearing a loose hoodie, probably white. He had on pants that weren’t very tight, and a fairly large square backpack on his back.”

The old lady across from him chimed in, “That’s exactly how he was dressed. The pants were school uniform pants, and there was a big letter on the front of the shirt.”

Mr. Carter said with a worried face, “My dad didn’t see the letter clearly, but the general details matched what everyone said. Our neighborhood is old and run-down, been that way for years, can’t be demolished, so it’s just like that. The streetlights there are very dim, several are broken, and my dad’s a bit farsighted. He saw someone running in the rain and shouted. The person was startled, turned around to look at him. My dad said he saw a bit of reflection at the person’s eyes, thought he might be wearing glasses, but he wasn’t sure. The next day, when the police came to ask questions, he found out someone had died there the night before.”

The officer brought over warm water, set it in front of him, and took away the empty cup. Mr. Carter nodded in thanks and took several sips.

Henry Harris’s face was clouded, and she said with certainty, “There was no mention of anything about glasses in the testimony.”

Mr. Carter quickly put down the cup and explained, “Because he wasn’t sure, and the other four people all said Harry Forrest didn’t wear glasses. One of the men told him, if you’re not sure, don’t say it, maybe it was just your imagination. He thought that made sense, so he assumed he was just seeing things. He figured, with so many people, he’d just say what he saw—surely not everyone could be wrong.”

Unfortunately, everyone was wrong. After a perfectly orchestrated frame-up, the only real eyewitness near the scene was brainwashed into hiding his testimony.

Mr. Carter pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving a bitter smile: “He only testified in court once, and died a miserable death. My dad really wasn’t a bad person, just an honest man. If you say he lied to hurt someone, that’s not true. But now, it’s hard to explain…”

Mrs. Summers couldn’t control her emotions. Thinking of all these terrible things, she couldn’t help but start to cry. Covering her mouth with a tissue, she asked, “Was that young man really wronged?”

Henry Harris paused, then replied, “There’s still no clear evidence. We’re still investigating.”

Although she said this, everyone could hear the bias in her tone.

“How could someone be so harmful? Who would have thought?” The old lady buried her head and sobbed, “Who killed our old man? Was it that young man? How should this be judged? I don’t even know who to blame.”

Across from her, Marcus Carter’s family members were equally conflicted.

A vendetta entangled by a mistaken beginning, mixing hatred and guilt, left them with nowhere to put their feelings. They no longer knew how to face the victim of the past, the perpetrator of today—only feeling a heavy weight of misery in their chests that could never be relieved.

The air in the reception room was thick, like a pool of black water, making it hard for everyone to breathe.

Henry Harris closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Countless fragmented images flashed through the darkness, and as she opened her eyes, they were replaced by the bright scene before her.

She walked step by step to the side of the table, raised her head, and spoke in a low, clear voice, informing everyone present.

“The cases of Marcus Carter and Quentin Summers are still under investigation… but it’s basically confirmed that the murderer is not Harry Forrest.”

Everyone looked at her in shock, trying to see if she was joking.

Henry Harris spoke very slowly, and under everyone’s incredulous gaze, repeated, “Harry Forrest has never killed anyone. He has always been waiting for the truth.”

The old lady’s hand, wiping her tears, froze in midair. Realizing what this meant, her chest heaved rapidly, and several trembling cries escaped her throat. Her children hugged her, trying to calm her down.

Even the bright sunlight outside couldn’t dispel the chill in the room. Everyone seemed to return to that cold, gloomy rainy night years ago, watching Harry Forrest step by step into a world of darkness in a haze of unreal memories.

The family members were all dazed: “How could this be… this…”

Yet, compared to their hatred for Harry Forrest, they would rather spend the rest of their lives accepting this overwhelming guilt—perhaps relieved that they hadn’t forced a young man down a path of no return.

Relieved that someone so unfortunate could still have a future.

Henry Harris wiped her face, erasing all expression, and calmly said, “Please check the records. Since all direct witnesses have died, your testimonies are extremely important.”