Vermouth and Jodie, two people whose positions should have been completely opposed, unexpectedly exchanged a glance at the same time.
"..." Could it be that the Tennis Coach hadn't actually lied? He'd stayed upstairs for so long not because he'd turned into some outlaw, but just to comfort that world-weary old man?
There really hadn't been a Murder Case tonight?
Once again, things had developed beyond the script she had predicted.
Jodie awkwardly pushed up her glasses, unsure for a moment whether she should be happy or disappointed.
But she quickly pulled herself together, remembered something, and whispered to Dr. Araide beside her, "He's crying so sadly. Do you want to go in and check on him?"
Vermouth: "..." Heh.
"Dr. Araide" shook her head and said gently, "I think a mature person shouldn't expose someone else's wounds."
Jodie didn't believe she was that kindhearted, but the words did make some sense: since there was no case, if they barged into a neurotic old man's room, not only would the owner feel awkward, they would probably be thrown out by him as well.
So, no matter what, the matter of collecting the plates was temporarily dropped. The two of them went back downstairs the same way they had come up.
Hearing movement from the stairs, the Tennis Coach turned to look at them. Seeing that neither of them had any plates in hand, he shook his head and sighed. "My dad's appetite really is getting worse and worse—sorry to trouble you. Sit down and rest for now."
There was no Murder Case, nor did any vehicle come to pick them up.
What had happened today seemed to have turned into an ordinary overnight stay.
Jodie sat on the sofa, glanced out the window, and fell into thought. "..." The