Caryn Zachmann raised her willow brows, her haughty face showing undisguised annoyance. She furrowed her brows and said to Celine Tucker, "I’ll give her a call and ask what’s going on, why she had to call the police."
She casually took out her phone, "If she isn’t injured, I’ll tell her to stop harping on Phoebe Hoffman; that will be enough."
Celine watched her call Nathalie Quinlan and didn’t entirely agree with her getting involved, but she didn’t stop her either.
Perhaps, deep down, her thoughts were similar to Caryn’s—if Nathalie wasn’t injured, there was no need to make a big deal out of it. Besides, getting the police to detain Phoebe was perhaps going too far; it wouldn’t hurt for soone to ntion this.
*
Elsewhere, in the McKinney Villa.
Nathalie had just arrived ho and went straight to her second-floor room. She changed out of her blood-stained clothes, took a shower, and let the hot water rush over her. It was only then that she noticed the broken skin where she’d been hit earlier on her back and shoulders.
Nathalie conducted a simple check on her wounds, applied disinfecting alcohol to herself—the alcohol must have stung the broken skin, but she treated it as commonplace, unperturbed as she disinfected and dicated the wound. She then found a set of clean clothes to put on, her hair still dripping, and walked unhurriedly toward the bed...
She looked as if she wasn’t injured at all.
When she erged, her phone happened to light up. Nathalie picked it up irritably from the bed, her idle eyes glancing at the incoming call.
A Beijing number.
One she hadn’t saved.
She dismissed the call.
Just as she was about to set the phone down and dry her hair.
The phone vibrated persistently.
Nathalie picked the phone up from the bed again, the sa number.
"Tch, quite persistent."
She examined the phone’s caller ID, figuring they would keep calling if she didn’t answer. To avoid further annoyance later, she blocked the number imdiately after she hung up.
Now the whole world was quiet!
After blacklisting the number, she glanced at her phone again to see a ssage from Justin Wafford asking when she was returning to school.
Nathalie responded with a casual "tomorrow."
After replying, she switched her phone to silent mode, tossed it back onto the bedside table, flicked her hair away from her brow, stretched her legs, and went to find a hair dryer.
...
Downstairs.
Amadeus Yancey and Alfred Garland had just co back.
The man was enveloped in a faint sll of blood, as if he hadn’t erged from his violent mood, his eyebrows slightly knitted, his eyes a cold gaze.
Seeing Audrick Zachmann approach, Alfred instinctively headed to the kitchen, "Amadeus, I’ll go make you a cup of tea."
Amadeus walked towards the living room sofa.
Audrick followed him the whole way, and upon seeing him sit down, he couldn’t hold it in any longer, eager to know, he asked, "How did it go, did those hooligans confess? Why were they looking to trouble Nathalie?"
He had asked Nathalie the sa question in the car; she only ntioned a na, nothing else.
He was completely confused.
Since he didn’t get it cleared up with Nathalie, he had to ask Amadeus.
He paced irritably back and forth and returned, grabbing his hair, ssing up his handso hairstyle, and lifting his gaze with tightly furrowed brows, he intensified his tone, "Amadeus, are they refusing to talk?"
Usually, in these situations, street rules dictate not to rat out the person behind the scenes. If they got caught, they would typically take the fall and wouldn’t easily reveal their backer.
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