Leaving

Doyle glanced out the window. When he turned back, his expression had already returned to normal.

He took out his phone and dialed a number.

"Speak," came a deep male voice from the other end.

Standing before the floor-to-ceiling window, Doyle looked down at the traffic crawling like a swarm of ants. "My son was killed by a hitman you hired. MI6 is investigating. I don't understand why my son and that bitch ended up dead at the hands of the same person."

"The final payment meant for the hitman is still sitting in your son's account," the other man said. "Think about it. What would a hitman do if his payment was withheld? You should be asking yourself why your son withheld the balance from a hitman."

Doyle's expression darkened.

"That woman called Mei Wa wants to trace the flow of funds," the voice continued. "We're planning to destroy all the records and leave the case at a dead end. What's your opinion?"

Doyle gazed at the cars below, tiny as matchboxes. His voice was hoarse. "Keep the original records, then fabricate more evidence. Make people believe Eliot was blackmailed by that woman, hired someone to kill her, then tried to stiff the hitman and got killed in retaliation. We need to cut all ties to this, completely."

"We'll compensate you," the other man said, his tone softening. "You lost a son. You'll receive something of equal value in return."

Doyle silently watched the dark clouds roiling on the horizon.

"Fine." He hung up.

Raindrops began tapping against the glass, soon joining into a torrential downpour.

Doyle's reflection on the window merged with the storm clouds.

Rain beat densely against the black umbrella, making a dull, steady sound.

Beta was the last person left at Helen's grave.

The white marble headstone, shaped like a sunflower, was as pristine as new. It had no needless ornamentation; only the rain splashing against its petal-shaped surface made a crisp pattering sound.

Helen's photograph was set into the base. Beneath it were engraved her name, the years of her birth and death, and a brief epitaph:

I loved my husband and son dearly—her final message to the world.

Beta closed his umbrella and tilted his face up to the pouring rain. It soaked him through in an instant, but he stood motionless as a statue, eyes closed, enduring the rain's cleansing.

Rain streamed down the car windows, blurring the world outside. Silence filled the car, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the wipers.

Matilda leaned against the window. Her warm breath fogged the glass. "He'll get sick."

In the passenger seat, Leon's eyes were still red. The usually stoic hitman rarely let his vulnerability show.

He sniffed, his nose stuffy, and said quietly, "Let him stay a little longer."

John sat in the driver's seat with both hands on the wheel, his gaze never leaving Beta. His lips pressed together as he maintained a silence as still as a statue's.

The rain struck Beta's face, stinging faintly at first, then gradually leaving him numb. The dense curtain of rain seemed to swallow him whole; even breathing became difficult.

He slowly lowered his head. Water ran down the taut line of his jaw.

With a pop, the black umbrella opened again, shielding him from the pouring rain. Beta gave the sunflower headstone one last look, then turned and walked toward the Cadillac.

The car door was yanked open, and he tossed the soaked umbrella aside. When the door slammed shut, the rainwater running off him had already pooled on the leather seat.

Matilda silently offered him a tissue. Beta took it, but instead of wiping himself, he gently dabbed the raindrops from the girl's hair.

"Let's have dinner at home," Beta said calmly. "There's still steak and vegetables Helen bought in the fridge, and a whole tub of Häagen-Dazs."

His tone was as casual as if he were commenting on the rain outside.

Leon's eyes reddened again. He turned away, looking out at the blurred, rain-soaked view.

"Sounds good," John said, just as calmly as Beta. "If we leave it any longer, it'll go bad."

The Cadillac started slowly. Its tires rolled through standing water with a dull splash. The car bumped along the gravel path and passed through the cemetery's rusted iron gates, leaving the white marble sunflower forever behind in the torrential rain.

The Cadillac slowly pulled into the garage of the sky-blue villa. The electric roller door hummed low, then sealed snugly against the ground with a click.

Beta got out first. His soaked clothes left a trail of water across the floor as he headed straight upstairs.

John locked the car, went into the kitchen, and opened the fridge.

Under the fridge light, Helen's groceries were neatly arranged: premium steaks, shrimp, fish, and fresh vegetables. And the unopened tub of Häagen-Dazs.

Leon sat at the kitchen counter, laying out the ingredients one by one. Matilda quietly took hold of his trembling fingers.

"I'll make the steak," John said, opening the vacuum-sealed package. "It definitely won't be as good as Helen's."

Leon's reddened eyes quivered slightly. He silently nodded.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Beta came downstairs in a linen-gray shirt and casual shorts, shuffling along in slippers.

He picked up the tub of Häagen-Dazs. The silver ice cream scoop flashed coldly in the light. He scooped out a few round balls, put them in a whiskey glass, and handed it to Matilda, adding an elegant coffee spoon. "Ice cream tastes different on a rainy day."

He made another serving the same way and pushed it toward Leon. "Something sweet might make you feel better."

Matilda took small bites of her ice cream, but her eyes kept following Beta's movements.

Beta dug out a huge, irregular lump of ice cream and dropped it into Helen's favorite glass bowl. He grabbed a soup spoon and shoveled a massive mouthful into his mouth. The milky ice cream immediately smeared the corners of his lips.

In the kitchen, John was frying steak in butter. Fat sizzled in the pan, and the aroma gradually filled the room.

Beta swallowed down one mouthful after another, finishing the whole bowl of ice cream in no time. He stood there, dazed for a few seconds, looking at the glass bowl. Then he silently washed the bowl and soup spoon and returned them to their places with meticulous care.

Matilda keenly sensed the strange atmosphere in the room. Beneath those seemingly calm gestures, turbulent emotions were being held back. The considerate girl always seemed able to sense the waves stirring in other people's hearts.

In the frying pan, John flipped the steak over.

The once-tender meat was now charred black on both sides. He stared at the ruined steak in silence for a moment, then transferred it to a plate and quietly put another piece in the pan.

The dinner was hardly delicious: four steaks that were either tough and dry or burnt black, a bowl of vegetables blanched in plain water and carelessly tossed with salad dressing, and a few kinds of fruit cut up haphazardly.

The steak on John's plate was the one he had charred black.

The others weren't much better. Their knives scraped against the meat, as if they were trying to cut through a stubborn piece of rubber.