Chapter 88: Holding a Cigarette
Erica, fanning herself, walked toward her daughter playing on the grass. The little girl, in a goose-yellow dress with small braids, sat quietly, her voice soft and innocent.
Tanner went to a secluded spot in the back mountain, beheaded the snake, and buried it.
In the Foley Villa study, a bright lamp illuminated a tall figure seated at the desk, his posture straight as a pine. A white gauze bandage covered his hand, but he wrote effortlessly with a silver Parker pen. His beautiful hand moved quickly; the light revealed half his face—a broad forehead, thick, curly eyelashes partially concealing his eyes, and a high nose bridge. The other half remained in shadow, creating a stark contrast that made him seem almost unreal, flawless and perfect.
Old Mr. Foley entered, his gaze immediately finding the man at the desk. He coughed softly.
Without looking up, the man's cold voice echoed, "Grandfather, do you have something to ask?"
"You little brat, can't I visit without a reason?" He entered, leaning on his cane. He saw the words on the white paper. Kelvin's elegant yet sharp handwriting resembled a dragon soaring across the sea.
Old Mr. Foley glanced at it incredulously. "Why are you copying the Bible?" He paused, adding, "You've always been an atheist."
Kelvin finished writing, listening to his grandfather's skepticism. He placed the pen on the table, his gaze fixed on a mimosa. He'd been replaying Cheyenne's venom extraction in his mind. Despite their agreement to move on, frustration lingered.
He'd heard copying the Bible calmed one's mood, so after bathing, he'd begun writing. But Cheyenne's sarcastic smile remained stubbornly in his memory.
"Seeking peace of mind, Grandpa. It's late," Kelvin said coldly, lighting a cigarette. He rarely smoked, only when stressed.
The match's blue flame reflected in his cold eyes.
Old Mr. Foley frowned. "You've been restless."
"No."
"Don't dismiss it. I know you better than anyone. You're wonderful, but you bottle things up."
It was exhausting. Other children shared their joys and sorrows; Kelvin remained reserved, concealing his emotions. His outward maturity, his ease in handling challenges, made his grandfather proud.
"Is it because of Cheyenne?"
Kelvin pressed his pen too hard, the point tearing through the paper and into the desk. Ink bloomed across the page, obscuring his beautiful script. He inhaled deeply, the acrid scent of smoke burning his nostrils. Leaning back, he regained composure, exhaling a hazy plume of purple smoke.
"It's not because of her."
"You still care," Old Mr. Foley stated confidently.
"No, I don't," Kelvin replied, his expression darkening.
"Yes, you do! Why else would you risk injury to save her?"
Kelvin fell silent, then retorted coldly, "If I saw a dying dog, even you would save it."
Old Mr. Foley rolled his eyes. "Fine, be stubborn. You'll regret it!"
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