Timmy returned home in a daze.
The moment Ethan Roy heard the front door open, he knew his son was back.
"Timmy, how was the gala?"
His father's voice drifted down from the second floor, carrying a faint smile.
Timmy didn't answer. He hurried into his room and tore it apart, turning the whole place upside down.
Then, staring at the diamond pendant lying in the drawer, the last trace of light in his eyes went out.
"Timmy, I'm talking to you. Did you not hear me?"
Ethan Roy's voice sounded at the bedroom door, edged with irritation—offended that his son had dared to ignore him.
"Hey, what the hell happened to your room? What are you losing your mind over?!"
Still barking, he strode in—then stopped when he saw his son sitting blankly on the bed, and the impossibly familiar diamond pendant in Timmy's hands.
"Timmy!"
Ethan rushed forward, snatched the pendant from his son's grip, and glared at him.
"How dare you pry open my safe!"
"If you need money, I can give you money. But didn't I tell you? The things in that safe—you don't touch them. Not even once!"
"..." Timmy opened his mouth as if to say something, but his voice was too small for Ethan to catch.
That only made Ethan angrier.
"Did you go mute? Speak!"
"Hey, don't be so hard on the child!"
At that moment, Ethan's wife, Diana, entered. She pulled her husband back and gathered their son into her arms, cradling him like he might break.
"What is it, sweetheart? Were you bullied at school again?"
"My God, you reek of alcohol… How much did you drink?"
She asked softly, brushing her hand over his cheek—then froze.
"My God… your face…!"
Diana stared at the clear handprint on Timmy's cheek, her voice sharp with disbelief and rage.
"Who was it? Who hit you?! Those people—how could they… how dare they do this to you!"
Ethan Roy's attention finally shifted from the damned necklace to the five distinct fingerprints on his son's face.
His brows drew tight, but his anger pointed in a completely different direction than his wife's.
"You got into a fight?" His voice dropped, heavy with accusation. "At the gala? You humiliating disgrace."
"Is that what you care about right now?!" Diana spun on him, her carefully maintained eyes wide with incredulity. "Our son was hit! And this is what you're worried about?!"
"What else would I be worried about?" Ethan shoved the pendant back into his pocket and paced the room, agitated. "He's a Cabinet minister's son! Everything he does outside reflects on me!"
"Do you have any idea what kind of impact this will have if it gets out?"
"McCroft—that bastard—might even use this to trip me up!"
"You—!"
"Both of you… stop…"
As the couple bristled at each other, Timmy's voice finally rose again—thin as a mosquito's buzz.
He lifted his head. The eyes that used to brim with arrogance now held only emptiness and fear.
"The Phantom Thief… it was the Phantom Thief Moriarty…"
"Don't spout nonsense!" Ethan barked. The moment he heard that name, his scalp prickled. "Have you drunk yourself stupid?"
"The Phantom Thief stole my things. What does that have to do with you? Why would he hit you?!"
"No… he… because… because those letters…" Timmy's speech was still disjointed, falling apart as it left his mouth.
"And… Russell Watson…"
Ethan listened to his son's incoherent rambling, and the anger in his chest only flared hotter.
But just as he was about to explode again, a thought struck him like lightning.
The Phantom Thief… had entered his home.
"That damned thief got into our house—is that what you're saying?!"
He seized Timmy by the collar, staring him down.
"Answer me!"
Timmy nodded shakily.
The color drained from Ethan Roy's face at once.
"Damn it… damn it, damn it, damn it!"
He no longer cared about scolding his son—didn't even respond to his wife's confused calls.
He whirled around and bolted from the bedroom like a man gone mad.
"Ethan! Where are you going?!"
Ethan didn't answer.
He thundered down the stairs and sprinted for the study on the first floor, panic clamping down on his heart like an icy hand.
He reached the bookshelf, trembling, and pulled three books in a precise sequence, revealing a hidden compartment behind them.
Empty.
The manila envelope containing every record of his bribes—gone.
Ethan's mind went blank.
"No—there's… there's still the guest room!"
He lunged out of the study again, racing to the guest room at the end of the corridor, throwing open a door that hadn't been touched in ages.
He dove to the bed and yanked up the mattress—rough, nearly violent.
Under the bed, the iron box was still there—the one used to store "beautiful memories" with his mistresses.
Hope flared in his chest. He opened it.
Empty.
It was over.
Everything was over.
Ethan Roy collapsed onto the carpet like a boneless creature, all strength sucked out of him.
His breathing turned ragged, cold sweat soaking through his expensive shirt.
He knew exactly what would happen if those things were exposed.
Not just the loss of his position. Not just disgrace.
Cold prison bars.
No… there was one last place.
The safe.
But the instant the thought rose, Ethan couldn't even be bothered to move.
He pulled the diamond necklace from his pocket and flung it aside in irritation.
That damned Phantom Thief had never cared about money.
Ethan clasped his head in both hands, clawing at his hair, as if he could rip salvation out of his own skull by force.
And then he heard his wife shouting.
"Ethan Roy!"
Her voice sounded furious, urgent, and… unbearably annoying.
Ethan didn't respond.
"Ethan Roy!!"
Diana's voice rang out again, shrill as fingernails scraping a chalkboard.
Ethan finally lifted his head, ready to snap at her to stop disturbing what little peace he had left—
But when his gaze pierced the dim corridor and found his wife standing at the master bedroom door, his pupils contracted sharply.
Diana stood there, holding a photograph.
Because of the low light and the distance, he couldn't make out what the photo showed.
But he could guess, even with his feet.
"What do I want?" Diana's voice forced its way out through clenched teeth as she advanced step by step. "No—let me ask you."
"What do you want?!"
She flicked the photograph into his face.
"Who is this woman?!"
Ethan lowered his head slowly and picked up the photo where it had slid to his feet.
On the back, in a wildly flamboyant hand, was a line of demonic dedication—one sentence enough to tear every last scrap of his "family" façade to shreds:
[A trifling gift, to Mrs. Roy — Moriarty]
"Moriarty…" Ethan murmured, gripping the photograph.
And in his ear, his wife's voice came again—each word ground out with hatred.
"Ethan Roy. Tomorrow, my lawyer will contact you."
Her voice was ice.
"We're finished."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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