Love's Gone, We're No More

He said he was a forensic expert, someone who could prove my parents’ innocence.

I believed and saw him as my only salvation in a world full of darkness.

Even after five years passed with no new leads in the case, I still believed he was doing his best.

I even felt sorry for how much he had sacrificed.

But in the end, it was all a lie.

The love was fake. The affection was fake.

Only the pain and lies were real.

As tears brimmed in my eyes, Martin appeared before me, his eyes instantly reddening with worry.

"Why are you squatting on the ground? Are you feeling unwell? Let me take you to the hospital."

I stopped his hand as he tried to help me up, staggered to my feet and barely managed to steady myself.

"Martin, is there still no lead in my parents’ case?"

He froze for two seconds, then replied without hesitation, "I’m sorry. I’ve been pursuing it this whole time, but… there’s still no new lead. Don’t worry, I won’t give up. I promised you an answer. You just need to wait for me."

He added, "Look at you, you’ve grown so thin from all this stress. Stop thinking about these things, okay? It hurts me to see you like this."

He pulled me into his arms, gently patting my back over and over, trying to comfort me.

But I didn’t miss the flicker of panic that flashed through his eyes. In that moment, the last bit of hope inside me completely shattered.

I couldn’t help but curl my lips into a bitter smile. ‘Martin… you’ve lied to me so cruelly these past five years.’

Just like always, I brought him a glass of warm milk to help him sleep. But this time, I had added sleeping pills to it.

Martin didn’t suspect a thing. He drank it all in one gulp.

Soon, he fell into a deep sleep.

I turned around and walked out, heading straight for the door he never allowed me to enter; his study.

The next second, I froze in place.

The walls of the study were covered with autopsy photos.

In the center were the bodies of my parents.

Their eyes were wide open, blood tears spilling from their hollow eyes.

They died unwillingly, unable to rest in peace.

They had fallen from the 28th floor and their bodies were beyond recognition.

But even so, I could still make out the fatal wounds on their chests. It was the clear mark of a dagger piercing through their hearts.

The killer’s strike had been swift, precise and ruthless. No ordinary hostage could have done that.

The flaws in the autopsy were marked by Martin, each one highlighted in red pen, line by line.

The case files were pinned to the wall, ten full pages, all marked with Rachel’s name. Her identity, her presence at the crime scene, the lone fingerprint on the dagger—everything pointed to her. The evidence was laid out plainly, undeniable.

But on the paper, Martin had neatly written two bold characters: "Cold Case."

How laughable.

I took photos of all the evidence on the wall, too afraid to look any longer.

I turned and walked toward the direction of the safe.

I had seen Rachel’s hostage information five years ago. At the time, I had already grown suspicious, so I had written down her details.

After inputting her birthday, the safe door immediately unlocked.

What greeted my eyes was an album dedicated to Rachel. As I flipped through the pages, I finally understood. Rachel had known Martin and Mark for over ten years.

Thousands of photos documented their happy past.

The three of them were always together, with Rachel always protected between the two brothers. Even her wedding photos were carefully kept in the album.

But in those photos, there were three people.

I gave a self-deprecating smile and didn’t continue looking. I took out my phone and bought a flight ticket for three days later, to leave the country.

I also applied to cancel all my domestic identification documents.

This place, filled with lies and betrayal, no longer had a reason for me to stay.