CHAPTER 64: CHAPTER 64: WHICH HAND DID IT?

The Maybach sped down the main road in the dead of night.

The phone chimed once.

Just by the ringtone, it was clear it was Serena Sinclair calling. Wyatt Hawthorne directly tapped the screen to answer the call.

Beep.

Beep beep.

The sound of disconnection echoed.

Wrong number?

Wyatt hesitated for a moment, then dialed back.

"Sorry, the number you have dialed is switched off, Sorry..."

A cold female voice arose.

Wyatt frowned, hung up, and continued driving forward.

...

In the attic, the sound of heavy breathing buzzed in her ears.

Serena Sinclair’s heart pounded like a drum.

The hand gripping the lamp went from stiff to trembling. Realizing Warren Vance had lost consciousness, Serena exhaled hard and pushed him away fiercely.

The moment before, Warren Vance was like a giant, impossible to break free from.

Now he was like cotton, softly collapsing to the ground.

The hand reaching out to check his breath trembled uncontrollably.

The attic was deathly silent.

After a long daze, Serena snapped back to reality, picked up her phone, and dialed 110.

"Serena? Serena???"

The anxious calls echoed from downstairs.

The faint sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance.

Serena leaned against the bed, trying to stand, but couldn’t manage to get up.

Bang!

Someone downstairs seemed to have lost patience, kicking the courtyard door open and rushing in.

The rapid footsteps were like urgent drumbeats, stopping at the door.

Serena looked up.

In the dim light, Wyatt Hawthorne stood like a god, descending from the heavens.

It seemed like not until now did she realize she had done nothing.

Still wearing the nightgown from after washing up.

Facing Warren earlier, she hadn’t felt compromised, only resolute courage.

But at this moment, facing Wyatt, Serena felt embarrassed.

Her arms tightly hugged her body, standing was awkward, as was sitting.

Serena watched Wyatt intently, fearing to see any trace of disgust or trouble in his eyes.

However, there was nothing.

The young man’s gaze was calm and steady, like the deep, untroubled sea.

"It’s alright now..."

Wyatt took off his suit jacket and put it around Serena, fastening the buttons, and gently hugged her, "I’m here!"

The cool scent of cedar filled her nostrils, with each breath settling deeply in her heart.

The worry that had clutched Serena’s heart all night slowly eased.

Footsteps swarmed in from outside the door.

Several police officers walked straight upstairs, "Who made the report?"

"I did."

Serena stepped out from behind Wyatt.

Over half an hour later, the entire group arrived at the police station.

Warren Vance had woken up, the purplish-red mark on the back of his head glaringly obvious, enticing anyone to reflexively touch their own back of the head.

It was clear how much force Serena had used.

But Warren adamantly claimed Serena had seduced him, "Officer, there is surveillance in the alley at my house entrance, you can check. She moved to my place less than a month ago and already had several men looking for her."

"...Flies don’t bite seamless eggs. If she hadn’t seduced me, would I have done such a thing? My properties amount to millions after demolition, and I have ample opportunities to find young beautiful girls. Do I need to force a woman who has been kicked around?"

His shameless words echoed through the hallway.

Separated by a wall, Serena was fuming, her eyes reddened.

She stood up, ready to confront him, only to be dragged back into Wyatt’s arms as he held her wrist, "Go rest with Cora first, I’ll handle things here."

"Wyatt, I..."

"Be good!"

Like coaxing a child, Wyatt held Serena’s wrist and escorted her out of the police station.

At the Ferrari parked at the steps, Cora Rivera eagerly ran up to them, "Serena..."

Stuffing Serena into the passenger seat.

She gave Wyatt an OK sign.

Cora slipped into the driver’s seat and sped off.

In the deep nightfall, Wyatt’s eyes turned vicious.

He turned back to the police station, knocking on the interrogation room door.

The door opened, Wyatt looked at the police officer conducting the interrogation, his expression gentle, "It was all a misunderstanding, we’re not pursuing it!"

"See, I told you it was a misunderstanding!"

Warren Vance joyfully exclaimed, "Officer, she’s not pursuing it, so I magnanimously won’t pursue her for hitting me. This counts as an out-of-court settlement, right?"

The report stated someone assaulted her, but aside from signs of a struggle, there were no physical injuries.

With the victim dropping the case, it was considered a false alarm.

Everyone was satisfied.

The police produced the interrogation record, asking Wyatt and Warren to sign it.

Warren massaged the dull pain in his head and left the police station, hailing a cab.

No taxi came.

A minivan stopped beside him.

The door opened, and two burly, tattooed men stepped out.

"You guys..."

Warren’s question was only half-formed.

A sharp pain spread from the back of his head, and everything went black.

He was hauled into the vehicle by the tattooed men on either side.

The minivan quickly vanished into the night.

Whoosh!

Ice-cold water poured completely over him, bringing Warren groggily back to consciousness, only to see Wyatt lounging lazily on the sofa in front of him.

The surrounding was pitch-black, without a single window.

His arms and legs were chained, hanging in a large ’X’.

Any slight movement caused a rattling sound.

The only light hung above Wyatt’s head.

Under the dim light, the young man sitting silently on the sofa appeared like the Reaper King from hell.

The brawny men by the wall barely even breathed, as if they could turn invisible.

It was only then he realized, "not pursuing" meant the police wouldn’t pursue it.

Warren finally understood, he might have crossed someone very dangerous!

"Who, who are you?"

He stammered fearfully, "I, I didn’t do anything to her..."

He was met with Wyatt’s piercing gaze.

Like being nailed to the wall.

Impossible to pry off.

Warren’s lips quivered; he couldn’t utter another word.

Wyatt leisurely stood up.

Holding a baseball bat.

Or perhaps one section of nunchucks.

Wyatt walked slowly forward, standing before Warren.

"Which hand did you use?"

His words floated lightly, like a cool night breeze.

But only Wyatt knew, each word squeezed out from between clenched teeth.

"I, I didn’t..."

Warren struggled violently, the rattling of the chains ringing out through the dim room, bringing back a stinging chill.

Though there were many people around, Warren had this inexplicable feeling: even if he died here tonight, no one would know.

"No, I..."

Bang!

A sharp pain hit, as if his right wrist and arm were severed, connected only by skin.

Warren learned that when the pain is extreme, no sound can be made.

The muffled "no" stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t draw a breath.

Warren looked pleadingly.

Only to see Wyatt roll his neck.

Bang!

Another intense pain struck from the other side of his body.

Like a kite with a broken string, Warren collapsed limply.

In the utter silence, a distinct clatter resounded.

Like something falling to the ground.