July 2, 2024. A day has passed, yet I haven't seen Kate anywhere—neither on campus nor in the greenhouse. Everyone seems to know what happened. Almost every hour, I overhear fragments of conversations, whispers of suspicion. Some even think I'm behind it. I don't care much; I understand. Kate hasn't spoken either, but the Head knows I wasn't a suspect.
Lecture after lecture, the day passes like any other. I attend each class with attentiveness, participate actively, but perhaps that calm exterior fuels the rumors. My lack of outward emotion after the incident has made me a figure of intrigue, a convenient scapegoat.
Mr. Devian entered the classroom, his golden eyes darker than mine, his smile coated with enthusiasm, his attire extravagant. He looked more like a businessman than a professor.
"Good afternoon, settle down, everyone. I assume you have all heard about Kate Delos Santos… The Head, in agreement with the other professors and the student council, has set forth new obligatory rules to ensure the safety of our students. I will not discuss the incident today. Instead, I will explain these new rules."
His smile was genuine, almost overly so. Why does he seem so… jolly? Perhaps he always is, yet today he seems brighter, more animated.
He meticulously outlined the rules, filling the class time, and dismissed us five minutes early. I remained seated, staring at him. His hands were bandaged. He caught my gaze, and when everyone left, we finally spoke.
"Mr. Ambram, are you feeling alright?" he asked."Perfectly," I replied.
He scoffed softly. "You don't seem alright." One corner of my lips twitched into a sarcastic smirk as I side-eyed him.
"Tell me… you buried Kate, didn't you?" His smile twitched, amused."How is that my doing?" He replied, testing me. Of course, I have no solid proof linking him to this—or to the death of the Rutherford student.
"Felix Ambram, I admire your bold, unsupported judgment. But it is rude to casually accuse me of something so controversial without evidence."
He's right.
"I noticed everyone rumored me to be at fault because of my remorseless demeanor. And I saw the same in you, so I assumed you were… blameworthy as well."
He scoffed, chuckled, ducked his head, and crossed his arms, settling into a chair across from me.
"I see. Perhaps you empathized with me… or perhaps I empathize with you. But to blame yourself is to admit wrongdoing. Are you blaming yourself, Mr. Ambram?"
"I do not. I am not at fault."
He grinned. "And I feel the same. Showing remorse can be a camouflage, a mask hiding guilt. But showing no remorse does not prove you are guilty. People are complicated to read. You need not display sorrow to prove innocence—just as one does not need to draw blood to prove one is a beast."
Bored, I realized I was getting nowhere. His words are philosophical, unreadable. "This conversation is pointless," I sighed, standing. "Have a good day, Sir."
...
My phone rang. It was my uncle."Felix, are you alright? Sorry for calling—I was pinned down by work.""I'm fine, uncle."
He sighed. "Meet me at the Grand Ambram Hotel by dinner. Your presence is required for an interview that will be broadcasted. As the heir, you are expected to attend."
I hate interviews. But I cannot refuse.
...
After class, I went home to change and headed to the hotel. My uncle greeted me warmly and introduced me to visiting elite families, praising the services and luxurious treatments of our hotel.
"You look just like your mother. I don't see your father's face… Are you adopted?" They laughed, ridiculous, like they were in a fairy tale. I barely remember my parents' faces.
My uncle's look told me to ignore them. "Felix, why don't you welcome some visitors at the counter? I'll take care of these fine gentlemen and ladies." I nodded.
I headed to the bathroom to clear my mind, splashing water on my face. Hands on the sink, I stared at my reflection.
He appeared. "Do you smell that?""I smell dirt," I said.
He chuckled, seemingly unaware of my meaning. "Could you speak with more sense? I do not understand, nor do I care to."
Amused, he laughed. The lights blinked, startling me.
On my way to meet the visitors, I noticed a slightly open room. Curious, I peeked inside. The sound of running water drew me in. The headache from earlier returned, pounding at my temples. Hesitantly, I approached the bathroom door.
I smelled soil. My heart raced. Each inch toward the doorknob made my pulse pound faster. I opened the door.
Mina Wang.
My body froze to the ground. Another dead body. The memory of her last moments flashed before my eyes. Tears came unbidden—an unfamiliar response. I never cried for someone's death before. Anger welled inside me. I felt the urge to kill.
Mina lay in the bathtub, filled with dirt, water running over her pale, lifeless body. Her eyes stared blankly. No blood. No physical wounds. It was as if her soul had been taken.
What kind of murderer does this? Am I being followed? Am I next? And why—why are the victims women?