Chapter 300

The city hummed with life as I hurriedly navigated through the crowd, my eyes fixed on the familiar figures of Scarlett and Olive ahead. Determination fueled my steps as I closed the distance, eager to reconcile. However, as I neared them, Scarlett's body language changed, and she steered away, creating a visible barrier between us.

"Scarlett, wait. Please!" I called out, my voice carrying over the street noise. Scarlett glanced back, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment before she quickened her pace. It felt like hitting an invisible wall, a sharp pang of rejection that cut through the air.

Confusion and hurt welled up within me as Scarlett whispered something to Olive, their steps quickening in unison. I tried to catch up, calling out again, "Scarlett, wait! Can we talk for a moment?"

She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing. "We're not speaking with you, Evie," Scarlett declared, her tone cutting through the air like a dagger.

The words hung in the air, and I tried my best not to crumble beneath them. It shouldn’t have been surprising that Scarlett was shutting me out, but the hurt was undeniable.

Desperation fueled my next words as I tried to explain myself. "Scarlett, please, the whole issue with Timothy is fabricated. I'm trying to help him, to get to the truth. I don't want you to think—"

But Scarlett cut me off, her voice cold and resolute. "Don't pretend like you know the truth, Evie. You have no idea what it's like to lose someone. Stella's death is not some fabrication, and it's insulting for you to suggest otherwise."

The accusation hit me like a slap in the face, the sting reverberating through my being. I stumbled for words, desperately trying to convey that my intent was not to undermine the severity of Stella's death but to unearth the truth that lay hidden beneath layers of deception. And I had lost people in my life, not that she would’ve known that.

"I... I'm sorry for your loss, Scarlett," I managed to say, my voice wavering with a sincerity that seemed to fall on deaf ears. “And I do understand what it’s like.”

Scarlett's eyes hardened, and she retorted, "That doesn't change anything. We have nothing else to say to each other." With those words, she turned away, her shoulders hunched with the weight of grief and anger.

Olive hesitated, casting a sympathetic glance my way, but Scarlett's stern expression left her with no choice. As they started to walk away, I felt my body tremble.

“But Mommy, she seems sorry,” Olive pleaded, tugging at Scarlett’s arm. “And she looks sad.”

But Scarlett's defenses remained intact. "Olive, Evie betrayed my trust. And she’s no longer safe to be around, given the company she keeps."

My heart sank at her words. "Scarlett...”

Olive interjected once more, "But you always say people make mistakes and that we should forgive them."

Scarlett's eyes flashed with irritation. "Olive, this is not your place to mediate. Evie crossed a line, and I need time to process this. I can't just forgive and forget."

"Scarlett, please. I value our friendship. Let’s not end things this way," I pleaded desperately.

Scarlett halted, her back rigid, and turned to face me one last time. "There's nothing to explain, Evie. Your actions speak louder than words. We're done here."

As Scarlett stormed off with Olive in tow, tears streaming down her face, I stood there, a mixture of frustration and sadness constricting my chest. The street noise became a distant hum as I grappled with the sudden breakdown of a connection I had hoped to forge.

The world around me continued its chaotic dance, oblivious to the emotional turmoil that had unfolded. I felt a sense of helplessness, caught in the crossfire of a family's grief and the pursuit of justice. I didn’t want to sacrifice my relationship with Scarlett, especially if she could help.

Retreating from the busy street, I found solace in the quiet confines of a nearby park. The rustling leaves overhead were the only sound that grounded me in the moment. I replayed the encounter with Scarlett, dissecting every word, every nuance. The anger in her eyes, the hurt in her voice – as if we were strangers all of a sudden.

The weight of Scarlett's rejection clung to me as I made my way to the car garage, my shoes dragging on the concrete. The city was just too late at the moment, and I was losing patience with it all. I started to long for quiet confines of my car.

As I approached the garage, a swarm of paparazzi caught my eye across the street. Flashbulbs flickered like distant lightning, illuminating a chaotic scene that seemed to draw me in despite my desire for solitude. Instinctively, I veered toward the commotion, my curiosity overriding the heaviness in my heart.

The crowd of reporters encircled a figure, and as I drew closer, my stomach tightened with dread. It was Andy, caught in the merciless crossfire of probing questions. The reporters, hungry for a scandal, bombarded him with accusations about his possible involvement in Timothy's alleged murder of Stella.

"Andy! Is it true that you were involved in the murder?" one reporter shouted, his voice cutting through the air like a serrated blade.

Andy shielded his face as he tried to maneuver his way through the sea of microphones and cameras. He caught sight of me from afar and grinned, pointing in my direction.

“Oh, look! Timothy’s girlfriend is over there. Go bother her about her involvement.”

I leered at him as the mob turned in my direction, and the excitement that followed was almost feral. As he dashed away, they came bounding in my direction, shoving cameras in my face. There was no point in running away now.

As I walked toward the chaos, the crowd seemed even more pleased. The accusations came fast and furious, each word aimed at my credibility.

"Evie, do you believe Andy's innocence in all this?"

"Are you covering up for Timothy's crime?"

The barrage of questions intensified, and I raised my hands in a futile attempt to quell the storm. "Listen, I don't believe Timothy is guilty. We shouldn't be spreading misinformation without concrete evidence."

The reporters scoffed, their skepticism palpable. "What's your motive, Evie? You were kidnapped alongside Bruce, right? What's your connection to all this?"

The mention of Bruce sent a shiver down my spine. The wounds from that traumatic event were still raw, and the memories threatened to resurface. I steadied myself, determined not to let the past dictate the present.

"I was a victim in that situation, just like Bruce. It has nothing to do with Timothy's case," I asserted, but my words were drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.

Accusations continued to fly, painting me as an accomplice, a conspirator in a crime that existed only in the imaginations of the tabloid-driven frenzy. My attempts to reason with them fell on deaf ears, the mob mentality overpowering reason.

Feeling overwhelmed, I decided to retreat to my car, hoping the anonymity of the vehicle would shield me from the relentless scrutiny. As I opened the door and sank into the driver's seat, a sudden chill crawled up my spine. Before I could react, something cold pressed against the side of my head, and a gruff voice behind me ordered, "Don't move a muscle."