Chapter 134: Chater-134. (Son of the Morris II).
The room suddenly felt colder, even though nothing had changed.
The same air, the same heavy silence, the same faint hum of the air conditioner, yet I felt it differently now. Everything in me had shifted after reading that headline.
I sat there, staring at the papers spread out before me.
The words blurred in my vision, my heartbeat echoing somewhere deep in my ears.
"Son of the Morris Family Killed the Golden Girl of St. Helena’s."
That headline refused to leave my mind. It was almost mocking me.
I knew Dave wasn’t a soft man.
He never had been. He was quiet, stern, always keeping a safe emotional distance from everyone.
Even in the years we were married, I could count on one hand the number of times he spoke gently, and most of those moments were when we were at our family’s functions.
But being cold... and being a killer?
That thought made my stomach twist painfully.
I rubbed my hands together, trying to ease the chill crawling across my skin. "Dave was cold," I murmured, more to myself than to Matteo.
"He wasn’t affectionate or polite, but he wasn’t... this. He wasn’t a psychopath."
Matteo didn’t reply to my relentless banter. He just leaned back in his chair, watching me carefully, that unreadable expression still on his face.
I tried to focus back on the article, but the words no longer made sense.
They talked about a girl, Clara Channing, the girl who won the "golden child" scholarship of St. Helena’s.
She was beautiful, and the kind of person everyone loved. There were a few quotes from other students, all painting a perfect image of her.
Then came the turn...the discovery of her body in an abandoned gym after a school event, the chaos that followed, the whispers that it was not an accident.
But what really struck me was how vague it all was. There were no details that actually tied Dave to the murder directly.
Everything was built on speculation.
Rumors.
Anonymous statements.
"A male student from a well-known family was seen leaving the premises."
"There were traces of a fight."
"The Morris family denied all claims."
No proof. No conviction. Just... suspicion of him being a cold-blooded psycho killer.
The words felt too monstrous to even attach to him.
It made my skin crawl just thinking about it. During our marriage, he never once raised his voice at me, let alone his hand.
He was distant, yes, cruel at times, but never violent. Never unstable. He didn’t even like being touched, let alone hurting someone.
So how could he...?
I shook my head, realizing my thoughts were spiraling.
"No. He’s many things... but not that." I whispered, almost to myself.
Matteo’s calm voice cut through the silence, "That’s what I thought too, when I first read it, but the Morris family went through great lengths to bury it. That kind of reaction usually means there’s some truth buried under the dirt."
I looked up sharply. "You think he actually did it?" My voice came out louder than I intended.
He shrugged, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, "I think something happened that night. Something bad enough for the entire family to lock it away for years."
I stared at him, trying to read if he was testing me or telling me the truth, but Matteo was like glass that refused to shatter. You could look all you wanted, but you would never see what was behind it.
Finally, I asked the question burning in my throat, "When did this happen?"
He flicked the ash from his cigar into the tray. "His final year. Senior year, I believe."
My heart stilled at his reply.
Senior year. I thought to myself.
That was the year I had moved in with my grandparents.
The time when my grandmother had fallen sick. I had transferred temporarily to another school branch, closer to their home. I had been away almost a whole year.
This was also the reason I had never got to know about this.
I remembered him saying once, in one of our rare, calm moments that "high school was hell."
I had thought it was just about academics or teenage drama. He never elaborated, and I never pushed him.
Now I wondered what exactly that "hell" had been.
I ran my hand through my hair, my thoughts scattering like broken glass. "You are sure this isn’t just some made-up nonsense?"
Matteo tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes steady on mine. "I don’t deal in nonsense. Every piece of paper in that envelope was pulled from archived police records, sealed documents, and the school’s own files. And believe me, it wasn’t easy to get them."
I didn’t doubt that.
But I still did not want to believe it.
Dave was a cold, silent, emotionally unavailable.
Maybe he had flaws, but he wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t evil.
Right?
The thought hit me again, sharper this time: What if he was?
My stomach turned. I pressed a hand against it, trying to breathe through the rising nausea.
Matteo’s voice was low, careful. "I can see you don’t want to believe it. That’s good. It means you still have hope."
I frowned at his words, "Hope for what?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, "Hope that the man you married isn’t who he used to be, Or maybe," he paused, "hope that he never stopped being exactly that."
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t know which was worse.
Marrying a man who once killed someone, or marrying a man who had been lying and hiding about it ever since.
The silence stretched between us. I could feel Matteo’s eyes on me, studying every flicker of emotion that passed through my face.
Finally, he spoke again. "The Morris family made sure this never reached the press again. No records, no charges. Everything was swept clean, but people realted to it remember. Especially those who lost something."
I forced myself to look up at him. "And what do they remember, Matteo?"
His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. "Enough to know that everyone hides their sins differently, Elena. Some bury them in graves. Others... in marriage."
The words sank deep, heavier than I wanted them to.
I looked down at the article again, tracing the headline with my finger. The letters were faded now, but the accusation behind them still screamed loudly enough.
I whispered quietly, more to myself than to him, "If this is true... I don’t even know who I have been loving in all these years."
Matteo didn’t respond. He just sat back, letting me sit with that truth, and maybe that was worse than any answer he could have given me.