Chapter 397 Look Into It!

• Hearing that Clement Yates’s grave had been dug up, Martha froze on the spot. At the same time, a blaze roared up in her chest. “Yes, master. I’ll make sure you get an answer,” Martha ground out through clenched teeth. She could picture how shattered Queenie Scott was right now. They’d been together for so long that Martha already saw Queenie as family. With something this vile happening, she couldn’t stomach it, either. Timothy Lavette hung up and held Queenie tight. He kept whispering to her, patting her back again and again. He had to steady her. Very few people could withstand a blow like this. If Queenie couldn’t hold it together, it would wreck her—brutally. Mentally, it could scar her for life. She’d already suffered too much—abandoned by her mother, losing her father, then persecuted by her mother, bullied by coworkers. One hit after another had pounded her down. “Her mother?” As Timothy’s thoughts spiraled, Alice Coober’s face flashed hard in his mind. Martha had said Alice showed up at the cemetery after getting out. Boom. A crack of thunder went off in Timothy’s head, and his face turned storm-dark. If Alice really did this—does he kill her or not? But it was never that simple. Why was Alice suddenly bailed out, and how “coincidentally” did the grave get dug up right before Clement Yates’s death anniversary, with the urn vanishing into thin air? Someone had to be pulling strings. The first suspects in his mind were one of those four families. They knew about his bond with Queenie, and they understood that hurting her was hurting him. They were vicious enough to use Alice’s festering hate to make this happen. That was the most realistic theory Timothy could see. Just then, a voice barked, “You… what are you doing here?” Hearing that gruff tone, Timothy’s eyes went razor-sharp as he swung his gaze over. One look, and the man jolted, shivering, stumbling back two steps. “Who are you?” Timothy was in a foul mood, and his voice showed it. “I… I work here. What are you doing?” “Staff?” Timothy frowned, gently loosening his hold on Queenie. He moved—fast—and in a blink stood beside the worker. He grabbed him and dragged him to the tombstone. “You’re staff, and you don’t know this happened? Talk!” Timothy nearly shoved the man down on the torn-open grave. The worker was terrified—not just by Timothy’s pressure, but by the scene in front of him. “H-how… how could this happen? How?” He was stunned, too. Their job was basically patrols—rotating shifts, keeping an eye on everything in the cemetery. Yet a grave had been dug up here, and the urn was gone. It was a massive taboo—spitting on the dead. The kind of thing that sparks rage. “You’re staff and you’re asking me? If you don’t give me a decent explanation today, I’ll bury every last one of you with him.” This was already a failure on their end. Their job was to patrol, and they missed all of this. The worker’s knees went weak. He waved his hands fast. “I-I really don’t know. I work the day shift. I go up and down dozens of times every day. Aside from people visiting graves, I’ve never seen anyone do something like this.” Timothy let go of him. If the guy hadn’t said he worked days, Timothy might not have let him off so easily. The blood in the grave had already dried. With the current weather, this had to have happened last night. Day-shift staff usually walk the stairways on both sides of the cemetery, so they wouldn’t notice Clement Yates’s grave in the center getting dug up. “Who worked last night? Now. Take me to him,” Timothy said, voice low and cold. The worker thought for a moment, then stammered, “Old Mao. He’s resting in the break room by the guard post. I-I’ll take you…” He cooperated fast. If he didn’t, who knew if this young man would really shove him into a grave. Timothy turned, wrapping an arm around Queenie. “Queenie, come with me first. I’ll have people handle this. Trust me—I’ll drag out whoever’s behind it. I’ll get you justice.” Queenie was already dazed, her spirit drained. Timothy’s chest tightened. This hit was brutal for her. He kept his arm around her and followed the worker to the guard room. “Your team will shoulder half the blame for this. I’ll have someone talk to your boss about the details. Now move. I want to see the night-shift guy you mentioned.” “Y-yes!” The worker hurried his pace. After a few minutes, they reached a small guard booth. Inside, a man in his fifties was smoking, one cigarette after another, not noticing anyone walking up. The younger staffer saw Old Mao still smoking and snapped, “Old Mao, someone’s here for you. Get out here.” Old Mao was a longtime employee—usually diligent—but this mess happened on his watch. He owned a big chunk of the blame. Hearing the shout, Old Mao’s cigarette trembled and fell to the floor. His eyes landed on Timothy and Queenie. A second later, panic flickered across his face. He looked lost. The distance wasn’t short, but Timothy’s sight was brutal. He saw every twitch of Old Mao’s panic, crystal clear. Which meant this had his fingerprints on it. Old Mao tried to calm himself. He stood up fast, washed his face at the sink by the door, then lit a cigarette with shaky hands and walked out of the break room. He’d thought about running. But the guy out there was young and strong. How could an old man outrun him? Since last night, he hadn’t slept at all. He hated himself for getting greedy—for taking the money. He’d given his whole life to the cemetery. In his mind, this work was good karma. But one split-second of temptation, and he did something he couldn’t stop regretting. Now he was scared and guilty. Even going to the bathroom, every time he passed photos on a gravestone, he felt like the faces were staring at him and smiling. That’s what bone-deep guilt does to you.