September 23, Saturday

  May stood outside the cafeteria, waiting for her coffee. When her name was called, she grabbed her cup and walked out, sipping.

  A woman in her early thirties, dressed in painfully fancy clothesthat revealed an ample amount of cleavage—highly inappropriate attire for a hospital—walked past. Every inch of her screamedwealth, from her impeccably curled blonde hair, glossy and voluminous, to her diamond-studded earrings that twinkled underthe fluorescent lights. The delicate scent of an expensive perfume—floral, with a musky undertone—lingered in the air long after she passed. She held her chin high, her every step exuding the confidence of someone used to admiration, even worship.

  May had already seen her around and knew she was there for breast enhancement surgery. She was Clemencia Oliver, probably the wealthiest, most ostentatious patient in the hospital. The kind of woman who never glanced at price tags, who threw extravagant parties just because she could, who carried herself with an air of boredom—as though the world existed merely for her amusement. She had talked to her a few times and May was sure she would get along with everyone. A friendly person in spite of all her aristocratic qualities.

  Clemencia sashayed toward the cafeteria, her stilettos clicking against the floor, and walked straight into May, spilling coffee all over her pristine dress. The rich, dark liquid spread across the silky fabric in an ugly stain, utterly ruining the outfit.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Ms. Mayfield!” Clemencia gasped, pulling out a monogrammed handkerchief from her Hermès clutch and dabbing at May’s dress with hurried, delicate hands. Even her panic had a touch of elegance.

  “Oh, it’s fine. No problem, Mrs. Oliver,” May said, though she was anything but fine.

  “No, it’s not! Please, come to my place! Let me wash that for you and offer you some fresh clothes.”

  “Thank you, but that’s probably too much, I’m afraid.”

  “No, Ms. Mayfield! You have to accept it as my apology for ruining your dress!”

  “Y-yeah… if you insist too much.”

  The Olivers’ chateau was breathtaking. The glass windows reflected the golden light of the chandelier inside. As May stepped through the grand doors, she felt as though she had entered a museum rather than a home.

  The floors were polished marble, the walls adorned with gilded mirrors and priceless paintings. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting shimmering light across the space. Every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a palace—handcrafted, imported, and undoubtedly worth more than May’s entire apartment.

  “You can use the guest bedroom upstairs, Ms. Mayfield. Here’s a change of clothes! Please give me yours—I’ll get them washed quickly.” Clemencia handed her a silk blouse and designer slacks, the tags still attached.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Oliver!”

  May closed the door, removed her shirt, and then cracked the dooropen just enough to extend her arm, handing the dress to Clemencia.

  Clemencia took it and walked away, saying, “I’ll put these to wash downstairs and wait for you there, Ms. Mayfield. What would you like to have?”

  “Anything is fine! Thanks!”

  The moment Clemencia’s footsteps faded, May hurriedly put on the shirt she was given, stepped out of the guest room, and opened the door to the next room—the master bedroom.

  It was enormous.

  If the rest of the house resembled a palace, this was its grandest chamber. A king-sized canopy bed with sheer drapes sat in the centre, covered in a comforter softer than clouds. The walls were lined with gold-trimmed shelves, holding everything from first editions of classic literature to antique trinkets worth a fortune. The vanity table held an array of expensive perfumes, each bottle shaped like a tiny piece of art.

  She had to find something—anything—that connected the murders of Mathias and Rictus Moore to their lawyer, Hartford Oliver, Clemencia’s husband. Or maybe not. But he had to know something about whatever they were involved in before their deaths.

  She frantically searched everywhere—beneath the bed, the wardrobe, drawers, the nightstand. Wealthy men like Hartford al‐ ways kept records. There had to be a ledger, a document, anything that revealed his business dealings.

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  “Ms. Mayfield!” Clemencia called from downstairs.

  May searched relentlessly. The bookshelf ? Nothing but fashion magazines and limited-edition coffee table books. The closet? Filled with couture dresses, each with a price tag high enough to make May nauseous.

  “Are you alright, Ms. Mayfield? Is there a problem?” Clemencia called again.

  “Yeah, I’m fine! Give me a minute!” May shouted back, her heart pounding as she rifled through the nightstand.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Clemencia was coming.

  May stood in the hallway, her eyes darting to the paintings lining the walls. Large, elaborate, and absurdly expensive.

  “Yes! Yes, everything is fine! I just… I couldn’t take my eyes off these beautiful paintings! You have quite the artistic taste, Mrs. Oliver!”

  Clemencia let out a laugh—the kind of laugh only people whonever worried about money had. “Oh, no! I’m a total dud when it comes to paintings! These were gifts from Mathias.”

  “Mathias… Moore? The billionaire who died two days ago?”

  “Yeah! My husband is their family lawyer, you know. He got a lot of gifts from them now and then.”

  “That’s… that’s awesome,” May said, pretending not to know anything.

  They moved to the lounge, settling onto an absurdly plush couch. Clemencia sipped her vodka from a glass rimmed with gold.

  “So you must be quite powerful people, being connected to one of the wealthiest families in Lake Forest,” May remarked.

  Clemencia’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Yeah, you bet.”

  “But being the lawyer of such an influential family must have itsown dangers, right?”

  “You’re smart,” Clemencia murmured, her voice growing drowsy asthe alcohol took effect. “It sure has its own dangers.” She leaned back, her eyelids fluttering. “Like yesterday, when that psycho Augustus… Me and my husband had our dinner, and I was washing the dishes. He was… I don’t know… watching TV or looking at his phone or something. He was busy, you know? With Mathias being killed and all…

  Then—oh!—there was this knock at the door. It’s, like, 9 P.M. Who knocks that late? My husband didn’t move an inch from the couch, so I went to open it. And then he rushed in. Augustus. Mathias’ older son… they say he has… I don’t know… bipolar or something … but really? He’s a psychopath!

  He must’ve been having one of those outbursts… you know, people with bipolar—they can get… real violent or real… down. He came to check the will that his father gave my husband! Can you believe that? One damn day after his father’s dead, and he barges in—just to make sure he gets enough from the will! What an ungrateful piece of shit!”

  “Yeah, right?! These people… no love for the man who loved them so much!”

  “Exactly! And Rictus—he’s no angel, but at least he doesn’t have Augustus’ crazy ass to deal with…”

  “So what happened after that?”

  “What do you think? My husband’s no fighter! He just went upstairs and grabbed some letter… it was written to my husband, by Mathias! He was… clever, you know! He guessed that his dickhead son would do such a thing and so… he left a signed letter stating that his sons would be receiving equal share!… yeah, he went upstairs, grabbed the letter from the safe—behind The Mysterious Garden. You know?

  I was in the kitchen, just washing… and I didn’t hear much after that, but… just that damn look on Augustus’ face when he kept…staring at me.”

  “Oh my god! What happened? Were you downstairs when your husband went upstairs?”

  “Yeah! And his eyes! Those… disgusting, creepy eyes—couldn’t take them! It was like, he couldn’t stop staring at my… you know… breasts. Ugh, just thinking about it makes me want to pluck his eyeballs out!”

  “Oh no! That’s… so creepy!”

  “Yeah, right? I mean, what’s there to look at? They’re only for my husband!”

  “Haha! That’s lovely!”

  “Speaking of which… mine were flat, so I’m keen on enhancing them… but yours are perfect already. Why are you… hospital-bound for that?”

  “Hahaha… let’s just say human greed knows no bounds, darling.”

  “True! So true! Here, drink more!”

  Roughly five minutes after drinking and talking, Clemencia passed out, her head lolling to one side. May observed her with a quiet sense of amusement. She must be really intolerant to alcohol. Did she drink just to show off ? May thought, rolling her eyes as she sat back in her seat, the weight of the conversation still hanging in the air.

  May took her purse out. It was a beautiful leather purse with a custom 'M3' embroidery. She took out a piece of paper and wrote something.

  When Clemencia finally stirred and blinked her eyes open, she was alone. The room was eerily quiet. The clothes she had given May earlier were neatly folded on the table, no sign of May’s presence. Clemencia felt a pang of confusion, the haze of alcohol still clouding her mind. Then, something caught her eye—a small piece of paper tucked under the clothes.

  Curious, she unfolded it, squinting at the simple handwriting:

  Thank you for the clothes, Clemencia! Let’s meet again sometime!Here’s my number!

  Clemencia stared at the note, her mind trying to piece together the events. May was gone. She hadn’t even said goodbye. Clemencia’s gaze flicked to the clothes, her memory a bit fuzzy.

  Why had she left so suddenly? Was I too much for her to handle? Or was it something else?