bioinnovel Did Chapter 732 leave a loose end?
Did Chapter 732 leave a loose end?
“Because she doesn’t believe you,” Gwen said.
“She doesn’t trust anyone,” Rowan said. “So she left herself too many backup plans. A fake old lady in 608, a seemingly harmless male escort, a front desk manager, an inside security guard, and 'R' whom she thought she could control. She wove everyone’s greed and suspicion into a net, thinking that this would make her the safest.”
“Then she died,” Lynn said.
Rowan didn't say anything.
The sheriff stared at him: "Who did it?"
This time, Rowan remained silent for an even longer time.
"Speak!" The deputy sheriff pressed down on the back of his neck.
Rowan glanced at Elena, as if confirming something. Elena didn't look at him; her eyes were fixed on the damp, dark cracks in the stone, her face pale.
“The rooftop wasn’t originally meant to silence her,” Rowan finally said. “It was just to force her to vomit up the other half. Thomas was in charge of clearing the area, Rachel was in charge of covering up the fake identity and the passageway, and Elena was in charge of erasing access control records related to 507 and 608. I didn’t go up to the rooftop myself.”
"Who went up there?" Lynn asked.
Rowan's eyelids twitched slightly: "Rachel will go up and talk first, with Thomas by her side. Violet took the silver box with her, but it only contained half of the key to open it, not the module. She said she would only give her the other half after she had safely left the manor."
The sheriff said coldly, "And then?"
“Then she tried to run,” Rowan said. “She probably thought she could use the blind spot by the pool to get out, or throw the box into the reflux chute so no one could get it. Rachel tried to stop her, and the two got into a fight. Thomas was just trying to control the situation, but Violet scratched Rachel with that thin hot wire and got tangled up herself.”
Lynn frowned: "Who originally had the fine heating wire?"
“Violette,” Rowan said.
Even the sheriff was taken aback.
"Did she bring it herself?"
“She was defending herself,” Rowan said. “She’s tougher than you think. That thing was something she took from the previous person. Rachel tried to take it, but she wouldn’t give it up. During the struggle, the string got tangled around her throat, and Thomas tried to hold her down—he went too far.”
A gust of wind blew through the narrow passage, making everyone silent immediately.
Gwen spoke first, her voice a little cold: "You mean, she wasn't killed as planned, but by mistake?"
“Yes,” Rowan said.
"You think saying that will make things easier?" The sheriff stared at him.
“It doesn’t matter how lightly she dies,” Rowan said. “If she dies, the scene must immediately change to another way of dying. Otherwise, Thomas and Rachel will both be finished.”
Lynn quickly pieced together the previously missed connections in his mind: the underwater anchor marks from the excessive depth, the backflow grille in the northwest corner, the deleted equipment layer video, the deliberately fabricated claim that "Gwen was the only one in the access control system"...
"So Thomas dragged the body to the edge of the grating and secured it, making it look like he drowned," he said.
"Correct."
"And you."
“I had already left the main building by then,” Rowan said. “I would come back to finish up after receiving the news.”
Gwen stared at him: "But you were in 507 last night."
Rowan smiled, though with a hint of weariness: "Because I didn't believe she would only hide half. It turns out I was right. Last night she put the empty silver box out in the open, and the real items were scattered even more."
"What exactly is hidden in 507?" Lynn said.
Rowan looked at him, his eyes seeming to weigh how much more they knew about this issue.
“It’s not a module,” he said. “It’s the second verification layer needed to enable the module. Without that layer, the module will read gibberish. She made the verification layer into a very thin film and hid it in the most ordinary and least likely to be disposed of immediately.”
Lynn's heart felt like it had been gently bumped.
The most common, yet least likely to be disposed of immediately, item in 507.
“Breakfast tray,” Gwen and he said almost simultaneously.
The sheriff frowned: "What?"
Gwen spoke faster: "When I entered 507 this morning, there was a kettle, cups, and a bathrobe left from last night, but I didn't notice if the breakfast tray was there. Because guest rooms are recycled, no one would consider it important evidence first."
Lynn looked up at the sheriff: "There's brown powder on the breakfast paper bag over at the detached house. There are also fragments of pharmacy labels under the 608 trash can. The fake old lady kept saying she was unwell and frequently had hot water and painkillers delivered to her, all of which were covering up the 'breakfast bar and catering service back and forth' operation. As long as Violet seals the test strips in the sugar packets, the inner film of the milk carton, or the interlayer of the tray paper pad, whoever takes them first will get the other half."
The sheriff's face immediately darkened: "The catering department."
“Or you could be temporarily transferred from the front desk to keep an eye on the food recycling people.” Gwen looked at Elena. “You’ve been staying at the front desk all day, not just to see who slips up first, but also to wait for 507’s recyclables.”
Elena finally looked up at her, her expression as cold as ice: "You should really become a policeman."
“No,” Gwen said. “I’d rather see you handcuffed and led back to the front desk through the lobby first.”
The deputy sheriff couldn't help but grin, but quickly suppressed it.
The sheriff stared at Elena: "Where's the 507 breakfast tray?"
Elena remained silent.
Rowan chuckled softly beside him, "Ask her, it's no use. She hasn't gotten it all day. She wasn't even sure who touched the tray first until just now."
"What do you mean?" Lynn asked.
Rowan looked at him: "It means there's another hand inside you, but it might not be one of your own. It could be a fool who picked up something but doesn't even know what he picked up."
The sheriff immediately turned to the deputy sheriff: "Contact the catering and guest rooms departments. Make sure no one is missed in any of the 507-related food and beverage recycling, linen recycling, or garbage transfers from last night to today. Especially the breakfast bar and the dishwashing area."
The deputy sheriff immediately responded, pulled out his walkie-talkie, and shouted out.
Elena seemed to finally realize something, and coldly glanced at Rowan: "You talk too much."
Rowan gave a nonchalant smirk: "You didn't leave me a better path either."
"You think you can get out of here just by saying this?"
"Get out?" Rowan's smile faded. "I just hate keeping promises for the dead."
The sheriff, too tired to listen any longer, gestured for his men to secure both of them. Elena tried to struggle as she was lifted, but Lynn snatched the black bag from her hand and tossed it to the officer. Gwen stared at the bag and asked, "What's inside?"
The officer quickly inspected the items and looked up, saying, "Hair gel, age spot patches, two blank employee pass tags, a roll of shrink film, and... a small stack of printed guest information."
The sheriff took it and flipped through it, his face growing even more grim.
"She marked important guests, single women, guests staying alone, and the frequency of their activities in the early morning."
Gwen felt a chill run down her spine: "She didn't pick people on a whim."
“Of course not.” Elena stood up straight, her hands clasped behind her back, but her voice remained flat. “A place like a villa is the most convenient. Everyone thinks they’re here to find peace and quiet, but in reality, they leave their habits, medical history, relationships, access control, and morning routines all to the front desk and the system.”
The sheriff gave her a cold look: "You're making yourself sound like you're doing customer analysis."
“I was already doing it,” she said.
“Then you were wrong about your analysis today,” Gwen said. Elena looked at her and suddenly smiled very softly: “Yes. I underestimated you.”
Gwen's eyes flickered: "You're not underestimating me. You're not treating me like a human being at all, just like a form to fill out."
Elena didn't reply, she just turned her head away.
The wind was getting colder. At the end of the narrow alley, the blue and red reflectors of police lights began to sweep in this direction, clearly indicating that the support vehicles and escort trucks outside had already circled around.
The sheriff exhaled, his voice low and steady: "Take them back first. Also, seal off 507, the food recycling room, the cup washing room, and the underground garbage compression area."
"Yes."
As Elena and Rowan were being led away separately, Rowan passed by Lynn and suddenly stopped half a step.
The deputy sheriff immediately pushed him: "Let's go."
Rowan acted as if he hadn't heard, and simply turned to Lynn and said, "You're still a little short."
Lynn looked at him: "What's missing?"
"Why would Violet dare leave the test strip on the food service recycling line?" Rowan said in a low voice. "She wasn't gambling; she had arranged a second handover with someone. That person hasn't been revealed yet."
The sheriff's face darkened: "Stop making things complicated."
Rowan, however, was already being pushed forward, leaving behind only half a sentence that was blown away by the wind: "Find the person who was the first to touch the breakfast cart this morning."
Gwen watched his retreating figure, frowning. "Is he stalling for time, or is he really leaving something to hide?"
Lynn did not answer immediately.
His mind was already racing through everyone at the resort who had been involved with the breakfast cart and the linen collection line all day. The kitchen supervisor on the morning shift, the staff in the dishwashing area, the restaurant staff on duty, the people collecting linens from the guest rooms, the people pushing the breakfast carts upstairs… the list was too long. But Rowan was referring to “the first person to touch the breakfast cart.”
It wasn't "the person in charge of 507," nor "the catering department," but "the first one."
It's like referring to someone at the very beginning of a chain, someone who is easily overlooked.
The sheriff had clearly thought of this as well: "Back to the main building. Now."
By the time I returned to the lobby, it was completely dark outside. Police cars were parked in front of the main entrance, their blue and red lights streaming through the glass walls, making even the fireplace seem cold. The guests who had been calmed in the restaurant and lounge had been further concentrated, with several officers patrolling the entrances and elevators. The front desk was completely sealed off; all the workstations, ledgers, and back-end terminals were in the hands of technicians.
Carl was still standing by the front desk, and almost reflexively stood up straighter when he saw them return: "Sheriff."
"Who in the catering department first touched breakfast cart 507?" Lynn asked bluntly.
Carl was taken aback: "507...this morning?"
"Correct."
"I... I need to think about it. Breakfast usually comes out of the kitchen at 6:20. There are two separate lines for detached buildings and high-rise buildings. On the fifth floor, breakfast usually goes to the service elevator first, and then the floor staff and catering errand runners pick it up."
Gwen asked, "Who brought breakfast up to 507 this morning?"
“If we’re going by the order, it’s Mia, the food delivery person,” Carl said. “But she’s only responsible for delivering it to the fifth-floor service desk; she doesn’t necessarily push it into room 507 herself.”
The sheriff immediately asked, "Where is he?"
"It's in the kitchen, it was just here a moment ago."
Just as the deputy sheriff was about to leave, Lynn asked another question: "Who was the first to hit the car, not the one delivered to 507, but the one pushed out of the kitchen by the first officer?"
Carl blinked. "That must be... Luca, the intern at the breakfast bar. He's the first one there every day, pushing the prepared trays to the distribution point."
Gwen looked up: "How big is Luca?"
“Early twenties, arrived last fall,” Carl said. “Very thin, curly hair, always wears a backwards cap—”
Lynn had already turned and walked towards the kitchen.
The kitchen and banquet preparation area are located on the back of the first floor, which is hotter, brighter, and more chaotic than the lobby. Even though there was a murder in front, this area still has to maintain basic operations during dinner time, but everyone's face is tense, and the sounds of knives and plates clattering are deliberately suppressed.
As the group walked through the staff entrance, several chefs and waiters paused for a moment.
The sheriff immediately revealed his identity: "Where is Luca?"
The kitchen's early shift supervisor looked up, his forehead still damp with sweat: "Him? Didn't he take leave this afternoon to go back to his dormitory?"
"What time did you invite me?"
"Around 3 o'clock," the supervisor said. "He said he had a stomachache and went to the toilet twice, so I let him go home."
Lynn and the sheriff exchanged a glance.
Gwen muttered under her breath, "You're only having stomach pains now?"
"Where is the dormitory?" the sheriff asked.
"The staff building, the second floor of the old dormitory building at the back, the innermost room," the foreman said. "What happened—"
"Don't ask." The deputy sheriff waved and led his men around.
The staff dormitory was located in a more secluded corner behind the main building, not far from the logistics area. At night, the lights there were much dimmer than in the main building; the corridors were long and narrow, and the windows were old, creaking slightly in the wind. The dormitory manager, a gray-haired auntie, was so startled by a group of police officers that she almost dropped her keychain.
"Is Luca back?" the sheriff asked as he walked.
“He came back!” the administrator quickly said. “But he came downstairs again, carrying a bag, saying he was going to the town for an emergency. I asked him if he wanted me to call a car, and he said a friend would pick him up.”
Lynn stopped in her tracks: "When?"
"Just a dozen minutes ago!" the administrator's voice trembled. "His face was so pale, I thought he was really sick—"
Gwen said directly, "He didn't go far."
The sheriff had already rushed to Luca's door. The door wasn't locked; it opened with a push.
The room was small, with two beds, one by the window and the other by the door. The one by the window was clearly Luca's; the bed was messy, the wardrobe was half-open, and two work clothes and a pair of hastily removed non-slip shoes were scattered on the floor. There was a half-finished glass of warm water on the table, next to an opened box of stomach medicine. The window was wide open.
Lynn walked to the window and looked down.
Below is not the main road leading out, but a dark and narrow alley between the dormitory building and the logistics shed. At the end of the alley is the garbage compression area and the delivery point, and further out you can reach the maintenance gate on the outer perimeter of the resort.
“He wanted to go through the back door,” Lynn said.
Gwen had already squatted down by the bed, picked up a disposable glove packaging bag from the table and glanced at it: "He doesn't have a stomachache, he has a burn on his hand."
"What?" The sheriff turned his head.
Gwen pushed aside the crumpled, damp towel next to the packaging bag. Below was a small, untied garbage bag containing two crumpled paper pads and a torn coffee scoop carton. A thin, transparent film lined the inside of the scoop carton, as if something had been hastily torn away.
“This is it,” Gwen said.
Lynn walked over, his gaze darkening.
There was a very faint brown burn mark on the edge of the milk carton, as if someone had cut it open with something hot. (End of Chapter)