CHAPTER 97: CHAPTER 97: SUSPICION

Jean watched his tall figure disappear behind the study door as it closed gently.

She stood alone in the center of the living room, bathed in the warm yellow light, but felt little warmth.

She eventually walked into the master bedroom.

The room was large, decorated in a stark modern style with a black, white, and gray color scheme, so clean it lacked any sense of living, save for her skincare products sparsely placed on the dressing table, indicating another person’s presence.

The air was filled with a faint scent of cedar, the ubiquitous scent of the body wash he often used.

Jean walked to the walk-in closet and took out her pajamas.

Her fingertips brushed against his suits and shirts hung next to them; the fabric was cold and smooth.

She quickly changed and walked into the bathroom.

In the bathroom, his razor, aftershave, and men’s skincare products were neatly arranged on the countertop.

Her toiletries were squeezed into a basket in the corner, clearly delineated.

The hot water came down, attempting to wash away the day’s fatigue and chaos.

But those images kept replaying in her mind.

Susan Kingston’s face, sometimes lucid, sometimes confused; Simon Sterling’s gentle and focused gaze; Justin Holden’s cold warning in the dark alley, and the unquestionable way he just insisted she sleep in the master bedroom.

After her shower, she lay down on the wide bed.

The mattress was soft, the quilt light and warm, but she felt uncomfortable all over.

The scent belonging to him on the pillows and quilt was even more intense, wrapping around her inescapably.

She turned on her side, looking at the empty pillow beside her.

Last night... did he sleep here?

How did things between them become so complex and insoluble...

In the study.

Justin Holden sat behind the desk, the laptop screen in front of him glowing, displaying complex legal texts and cases, but he couldn’t focus on a single word.

His fingers tapped the tabletop unconsciously, creating a rhythmic soft sound.

What repeatedly surfaced in his mind was the scene he saw in the treatment room at the nursing home in the evening.

Simon Sterling holding Jean’s wrist, lowering his head, very close. Jean didn’t seem to resist.

And before, her frequent visits to the nursing home,

was it really just because of the so-called responsibility to a "friend’s daughter"?

And... Jesse’s natural and affectionate address to Susan Kingston.

Grandma...

Why grandma? For a child, "Grandma" should be easier to say than "Grandma."

Unless... in the child’s perception, that person should be grandma.

An absurd yet gradually clear thought uncontrollably surfaced, hovered, and became increasingly impossible to ignore in his calm and rational mind.

He suddenly stood up, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window of the study.

Outside the window was the dazzling cityscape, bustling yet cold.

He recalled five years ago, the Caldwell family’s sudden collapse, and Claire Caldwell being imprisoned.

He wanted numerous times to visit her but just stood at the prison gates; his heart ached so much he couldn’t enter, he couldn’t face her.

Later, he heard news of her death in prison.

He used all his connections, and the results matched what the female prison officer had said.

After the Caldwell family’s incident, Susan Kingston was completely mentally broken and sent to a nursing home.

Out of duty, he took on the responsibility of taking care of Susan Kingston and arranged everything as a son-in-law, ensuring she received the best care.

Then, Jean appeared.

Claiming to be the daughter of Susan Kingston’s old friend, she came to visit and care for her.

The timing of her appearance, the look in her eyes when she saw Jesse, the complex emotions she faced when she was with Susan Kingston, her familiarity with the Caldwell family’s past...

And that face, those eyes.

Occasionally revealed, utterly different from the proud and wanton eldest daughter of the Caldwell family in his memory, yet inexplicably aligned in certain moments.

Justin Holden’s pupils suddenly contracted.

He always felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity with Jean, but he never thought deeply.

At this moment, those fragmented doubts seemed to finally find a thread, gradually linking together.

If... if Jean is Claire Caldwell?

This thought exploded like thunder in his mind.

Then Jesse... whose child is Jesse?

He almost immediately wanted to rush out, grab her, and ask for clarity.

But the extreme calm and rationality honed by years of being a lawyer still functioned forcibly amidst the most intense emotional impact.

He needed evidence.

He needed irrefutable, undeniable evidence.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to sit back down, though his fingers were slightly trembling.

He opened an encrypted folder on his computer and started frantically searching for all information related to the name "Jean Ellison," tracing back from the timeline when she first appeared at the nursing home.

The more he investigated, the darker his face became, and the colder his eyes grew.

The identity of Jean Ellison was almost perfectly clean, but the more perfect it was, the more suspicious it seemed.

Many timelines, when scrutinized, were unbelievably coincidental.

Especially Jesse’s birth date...

Justin Holden suddenly leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers hard on his brow.

If Jean is Claire Caldwell.

Then Jesse must be his daughter.

And she, going through great pains to conceal her identity, even fabricating a death certificate, was it just to... hide from him?

Taking his daughter, keeping away from him?

He opened his eyes, his gaze sheer ice and deep shadow.

He stood up, step by step walking to the study door, gripping the handle.

The cold metallic touch slightly suppressed the burning heat in his palm.

He turned the handle and walked out.

The living room was dark, with only a weak light leaking from the crack under the master bedroom door.

Justin Holden walked to the master bedroom door and stopped.

He raised his hand, intending to knock, but the motion halted mid-air.

He stood there quietly, motionless, as if a solidified statue.

In the darkness, he could only hear his own suppressed and heavy breathing and the presence of another person inside.

He didn’t know how long he stood there.

Eventually, the hand about to knock slowly lowered.

He must have been relapsing again, in the deep night, thinking every woman looked like Claire Caldwell.

He clenched his fist tightly, knuckles whitening from the pressure, veins surfacing subtly on the back of his hand.

Then he suddenly turned and walked back to the study, slamming the door shut with a "bang."

The sound was particularly abrupt and cold in the silent night.

Inside the master bedroom, Jean, who was already a light sleeper, was startled by the sudden door slam, sitting up in bed with a jolt, looking towards the door with uncertainty and alarm.

In the darkness, she only heard her own rapid heartbeat.

No further movement came from outside the door.