Chapter 6 · Wrong Side Of The Grave

Chapter 6

Dylan, did you see?

Did you hear?

This was the woman you trusted and defended.

She dared to curse a sick, old woman to her face, right in front of you.

Why didn't you believe Grandma?

Why didn't you believe me?

Were all those life-and-death bonds we shared worth less than Willow's fake performance?

Hatred.

An unprecedented hatred grew and spread like wildfire through my dead heart.

If hatred could kill, Willow would have been torn to shreds a thousand times over.

If resentment could take form, I would become a vengeful spirit and haunt her for eternity.

But I could do nothing.

I could only watch Grandma suffer, watch my enemy walk free, watch the man I once loved, blinded, become an accomplice in hurting the person dearest to me.

This helplessness was more despairing than death itself.

Grandma stayed in the hospital for three days.

Those three days felt like thirty years to me.

I watched her moan in pain at night, saw her fear in the unfamiliar hospital, listened as she mumbled over the bland hospital food, "Stella doesn't like this..."

Every minute, every second, was torture.

Dylan and Willow didn't return. But that brought me no relief.

The deep, unreadable look in Dylan's eyes as he left hung over me like a sword of Damocles.

He would never just give up.

Sure enough, the afternoon after Grandma was discharged and back home, that familiar black SUV pulled up outside the courtyard again.

This time, it was only Dylan.

He was in civilian clothes. Less of the official sternness, but carrying a darker, more dangerous aura.

He carried a supermarket plastic bag with some basic supplies. It looked like a visit.

I drifted to the gate, watching him warily.

Grandma was sitting in the yard, sunning herself. The warm light fell on her pale, worn face, but couldn't dispel the lifelessness hanging over her.

Hearing the car, she opened her eyes. The moment she saw Dylan, she visibly flinched. Fear and resistance filled her cloudy eyes.

"You... you're back? What do you want now?"

Her voice trembled. Her hands gripped the arms of the wicker chair.

Dylan stood outside the gate, not entering immediately.

His gaze fell on the unhealed wound on Grandma's forehead, then swept over her frightened face. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He lifted the bag slightly. His voice was still cold, but seemed deliberately softened. "I was passing by. Checking on you. And... to ask a few more questions."

"I don't know anything... Stella's dead. Please, stop asking..."

Grandma shook her head, on the verge of tears.

Dylan remained unmoved. He pushed the gate open and walked in.

He placed the bag on the stone table in the yard, then pulled over a small stool and sat down in front of Grandma.

The posture was less like an interrogation, more like a conversation.

But his eyes were still sharp, scrutinizing.

He said, his voice low, "I know you loved Stella. But some things... they don't just go away because you say she's gone."

He paused, his gaze piercing. "Remember Maverick? The young man who used to come by fixed your roof. Had those big dimples when he smiled."

Grandma stiffened. A flash of memory and pain crossed her eyes. She nodded.

"He's dead." Dylan's voice was flat, but carried a heavy weight. "And Thomas. Addison... Out of the seven who went, only three came back. All wounded. Thomas lost a leg. He'll never walk again."

My heart plummeted. Maverick... Thomas... they were all...

"The route they took was top secret. Only a handful knew it." Dylan leaned forward slightly, the movement putting immense pressure on Grandma. "And the source of the leak... technical tracking confirmed it came from Stella's personal encrypted channel. Anomalous data transmission. One hour before she disappeared."

"Impossible." I shrieked beside him. "Only I knew my channel password. I never leaked anything."

Grandma grew agitated too, waving her hands. "No. Stella wouldn't do that. She was a good girl. She must have been framed."

"Framed?"

Dylan's lips twisted into a cold, mocking smile. "The evidence is solid. And after the mission failed, she vanished. If she wasn't guilty, why would she run?"

Chapter 6

Dylan, did you see?

Did you hear?

This was the woman you trusted and defended.

She dared to curse a sick, old woman to her face, right in front of you.

Why didn't you believe Grandma?

Why didn't you believe me?

Were all those life-and-death bonds we shared worth less than Willow's fake performance?

Hatred.

An unprecedented hatred grew and spread like wildfire through my dead heart.

If hatred could kill, Willow would have been torn to shreds a thousand times over.

If resentment could take form, I would become a vengeful spirit and haunt her for eternity.

But I could do nothing.

I could only watch Grandma suffer, watch my enemy walk free, watch the man I once loved, blinded, become an accomplice in hurting the person dearest to me.

This helplessness was more despairing than death itself.

Grandma stayed in the hospital for three days.

Those three days felt like thirty years to me.

I watched her moan in pain at night, saw her fear in the unfamiliar hospital, listened as she mumbled over the bland hospital food, "Stella doesn't like this..."

Every minute, every second, was torture.

Dylan and Willow didn't return. But that brought me no relief.

The deep, unreadable look in Dylan's eyes as he left hung over me like a sword of Damocles.

He would never just give up.

Sure enough, the afternoon after Grandma was discharged and back home, that familiar black SUV pulled up outside the courtyard again.

This time, it was only Dylan.

He was in civilian clothes. Less of the official sternness, but carrying a darker, more dangerous aura.

He carried a supermarket plastic bag with some basic supplies. It looked like a visit.

I drifted to the gate, watching him warily.

Grandma was sitting in the yard, sunning herself. The warm light fell on her pale, worn face, but couldn't dispel the lifelessness hanging over her.

Hearing the car, she opened her eyes. The moment she saw Dylan, she visibly flinched. Fear and resistance filled her cloudy eyes.

"You... you're back? What do you want now?"

Her voice trembled. Her hands gripped the arms of the wicker chair.

Dylan stood outside the gate, not entering immediately.

His gaze fell on the unhealed wound on Grandma's forehead, then swept over her frightened face. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

He lifted the bag slightly. His voice was still cold, but seemed deliberately softened. "I was passing by. Checking on you. And... to ask a few more questions."

"I don't know anything... Stella's dead. Please, stop asking..."

Grandma shook her head, on the verge of tears.

Dylan remained unmoved. He pushed the gate open and walked in.

He placed the bag on the stone table in the yard, then pulled over a small stool and sat down in front of Grandma.

The posture was less like an interrogation, more like a conversation.

But his eyes were still sharp, scrutinizing.

He said, his voice low, "I know you loved Stella. But some things... they don't just go away because you say she's gone."

He paused, his gaze piercing. "Remember Maverick? The young man who used to come by fixed your roof. Had those big dimples when he smiled."

Grandma stiffened. A flash of memory and pain crossed her eyes. She nodded.

"He's dead." Dylan's voice was flat, but carried a heavy weight. "And Thomas. Addison... Out of the seven who went, only three came back. All wounded. Thomas lost a leg. He'll never walk again."

My heart plummeted. Maverick... Thomas... they were all...

"Impossible." I shrieked beside him. "Only I knew my channel password. I never leaked anything."

Grandma grew agitated too, waving her hands. "No. Stella wouldn't do that. She was a good girl. She must have been framed."

"Framed?"

Dylan's lips twisted into a cold, mocking smile. "The evidence is solid. And after the mission failed, she vanished. If she wasn't guilty, why would she run?"