But, We Have Two People

He's toying with me... He already spotted the footprints before he suggested killing Wilbur—that so-called proposal was just him messing with a monkey in a zoo.

Hope felt some restless stirring beneath the bed. He pretended to be angered by Wilbur's words, then slammed his hand against the bedboard.

Hope took a deep breath. "Mr. Robert, you might as well speak plainly. What exactly do you want?"

"Well, at first I really just wanted to see what you looked like, but now... I want to watch you go kill Wilbur."

I want to too, but not yet. At least let me learn more about Whateley House first.

Hope raised his volume and slowed his pace, making himself seem more confident. "You think you've got some huge leverage on me? Don't be ridiculous. After you leave, I'll tell Grandfather myself."

Robert tilted his head indifferently. "I'm sure he won't do much to you, but what about your friend?"

"He has his own ways, just like you have yours."

Hope stressed the second half of the sentence, deliberately emphasizing that Robert himself had also arrived here through improper means.

Robert was affected, as expected. He was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed again. "Want to give it a try?"

He walked to the door and made a "please" gesture.

A few seconds passed.

"Your ass might as well be glued to that bed," Robert said, straightening up again.

A sound came from under the bed again—someone trying to get out. Hope slammed the bedboard once more.

"Killing Wilbur—what's in it for you?"

"In it for me? I think I already said it. He's too ugly, doesn't fit my aesthetic. And I don't like albinism either. It'd be great if one of you two could die."

Same spiel as before—bizarre enough to be somewhat believable.

"You're a madman, Robert."

"Say what you want. But if you don't do as I say, your friend's as good as dead, Hope." Robert said, swaying his body smugly like a clown.

Hope thought for a few seconds, then nodded. "Fine. I agree. I'll do it."

He had no intention of fighting Wilbur to the death. He decided to pretend to agree with Robert first, to lower his guard.

"That's wonderful," Robert said. "Then I'll stay an extra day today, enjoy a solo picnic on that grass out there, and wait for your good news."

He suspects I'm using a delaying tactic, so he's staying to watch me... That's even better for me...

"Fine." Hope nodded again.

He was thinking about Old Williams's shotgun. Once Robert was alone, Hope could go to Old Williams's place and grab it.

With a little preparation, he could appear behind Robert without a trace. Killing Robert would definitely be easier than killing the Night Hawk or Wilbur.

Kill Robert... Hope felt fear at his own thought. He bit his finger but didn't change his mind.

Robert tilted his head, seemingly surprised Hope agreed so quickly. He suddenly slapped his forehead, reached into his black robe, and pulled out two items.

"Old Whateley's fountain pen." Robert showed Hope the silver pen with no engravings. "Pretty, isn't it? He just gave it to me."

He handed the pen to Hope.

"What's this, a welcome gift?"

"No, just lending it to you." He showed the other item, which looked like a piece of cotton cloth. "A contract paper blessed by the 'All-Seer.' Sign your name on it."

The All-Seer... Never heard that name before.

"Why?" Hope asked.

"So I can trust you."

"Just because of this paper?"

"It's a contract paper blessed by the All-Seer. Write down what you're going to do, sign your name, and you'll form a pact with their god, the 'Eye of Peering Mysteries.' Break it, and you'll fall into madness."

Fall into madness... So using this contract paper is like swearing to heaven and getting struck by lightning... But this paper seems to have a real god as a witness—you really would go mad.

Eye of Peering Mysteries... Sounds like an evil god... Wonder if it's stronger than that King of Kings... Aren't I a follower of the King of Kings? Would it need his permission to drive me mad...

Not worth gambling on a heretic god's sense of responsibility toward its followers... Looks like pretending to agree won't work.

Hope quickly came up with a second plan. He shrugged. "I'll admit, at first I thought you were an idiot... But now you're not so smart either."

Hearing himself called an "idiot," Robert clearly grew angry. "Damn it, what do you mean by that?"

Hope stood up from the bed. His leg wasn't healed yet, so he had to put all his weight on his good right leg, bending his left slightly.

This made him a bit taller than Robert.

Hope had once read some psychology books—most of the content went in one ear and out the other, barely lingering between his eyes.

But he still remembered a few simple, practical tricks: when talking, if you look down at the other person, you hold a slight advantage.

The person being looked down upon feels a sense of pressure, sometimes losing their ability to judge your lies.

"Use your brain, Mr. Robert. If someone really snuck in by tearing open the roof, why wouldn't they fix the hole when they left?"

Robert paused. "If you're still going to claim Old Whateley knew about this hole, we can go ask him right now."

"You misunderstand, Mr. Robert. I was asking you to guess—just how hurriedly did that person leave, that he didn't have time to fix the hole? Or... has he truly left at all?"

Hope's gaze drifted faintly toward the gap, creating the illusion that Paul was waiting on the rooftop.

Robert's face changed color as expected. Warily eyeing the ceiling, he edged along the room's perimeter toward the door.

He didn't forget to threaten Hope: "Don't try anything! Old Whateley's bedroom is right below this!"

Not directly below. Hope was certain of that, because last night he'd seen Wilbur enter that room to bring Lavinia cookies and beer. That was the kitchen.

Robert had instinctively used the imprecise word "below," blurring the distance between the small room and Old Whateley. That revealed two things.

One: he was panicked, hoping to use Old Whateley to pressure me.

Two: perhaps Old Whateley's bedroom was farther than imagined, or he'd have said outright, "Old Whateley hears everything," or something similar.

Hmm... I can't rule out overthinking, but there's no other choice now.

Hope's foot tapped twice in a light rhythm.

It was a signal that needed no prior explanation—as easy to understand as Paul's wink yesterday.

Then, like a scene from a horror film, a pair of strong, powerful hands reached out from beneath his bed.

The hands gripped the bed frame, muscles bulging, and pulled horizontally in a kind of "chin-up."

Under the pull of those muscles, a lithe body slid out from under the bed.

It was Paul!

He'd already aimed while under the bed, head up, back scraping against the floor, shooting out like a cannonball, ramming straight into Robert, who was heading for the door.

Paul wasn't fast, but Robert, who'd been on guard against the ceiling, still failed to react.

Paul twisted his body, rising from the floor while grabbing Robert's calf...

A perfect takedown!

Robert fell backward.

"Ah..." Robert's mouth opened wide in shock.

But his scream cut short. As he lost his balance and his gaze uncontrollably tilted toward the ceiling, Hope, who had been standing by the bed, vanished.

He suddenly appeared behind Robert, gripping Robert's jaw with both hands, cradling his head against his chest.

That both kept Robert's head from hitting the floor and silenced his cry for help.