No matter how bitter someone was about being framed, no matter how much hatred burned inside them—who would risk their life to commit murder the very moment they were released from prison?
Just what exactly had Tristan done to Martin?
On the way back, I suddenly remembered a very crucial person. Without hesitation, I pulled out my phone and made a call, issuing a few instructions. There was no room for error in what I was planning.
Not long after I lay down in my apartment, I heard the sound of the door unlocking.
I didn't get up immediately. Instead, I listened, tracking her movements. The slight hesitation in her steps, the hurried rustling of her bag, the soft creak of the mirror cabinet as she undoubtedly checked her appearance.
Finally, I stepped out of the bedroom, my movements deliberate.
Vanessa flinched the moment she saw me. Her eyes widened and her hand instinctively shot up to her neck, but she was too slow. I had already seen them—the faint, deep-red marks marring her skin. She hurriedly adjusted her collar, tugging it up in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of her betrayal.
"Honey, you're still up?" she asked, forcing a smile.