As the car started and drove only a few hundred meters, Orpheus heard some noises coming from behind him. A moment later, an arm wrapped around his neck, and the smell of alcohol-laden breath brushed against his ear.
"Madam, I'm driving," he said.
The next moment, Orpheus felt his earlobe being sucked into a warm, slippery mouth—a sensation that was quite intoxicating.
"Madam, I'm driving," he repeated, slowing the car down.
"I'm so stupid~," Mrs. Hughes whispered softly in his ear.
"Madam, how could you say that?"
"I'm an ugly, unfortunate, and stupid woman."
"Madam, please don't talk about yourself like that."
"Didn't you call me stupid?" Mrs. Hughes asked, her voice curious. "Over the phone."
"When did I..." Orpheus suddenly froze.
"And this afternoon, in the living room, were you and that officer discussing me? I could see the disdain in your expression and tone."
"Mrs. Hughes, please don't joke like that," Orpheus replied while checking the rearview mirror to gauge the situation behind him.
"You looked down on my artistic abilities—no, you looked down on my entire being, Orpheus. It broke my heart to realize that you saw me that way.
Did you know that when I first laid eyes on you, I wanted you in my bed? I wanted to give you real pleasure, to make you a... real man."
Orpheus's left hand slowly gripped the steering wheel, and his right foot was poised to hit the accelerator.
An emergency brake would likely throw her off balance, giving him a chance to get out of the car. But damn it! Why was he always so meticulous? In Roga City, the police wouldn't penalize you for not wearing a seatbelt, yet he had fastened it out of habit!
"Ugh, ugh, ugh..." Mrs. Hughes started to sob.
"Orpheus, you've truly broken my heart. You didn't even wear the watch I gave you."
"Believe me, Mrs. Hughes, starting tomorrow, I will wear that watch every day, never taking it off."
"A man's words can't be trusted," Mrs. Hughes raised her other hand slowly from behind, "but I have another way to make sure you keep your word."
Through the rearview mirror, Orpheus observed her movements.
He planned to hit the gas and then slam on the brakes, unbuckle his seatbelt with his right hand, open the door with his left, and use the momentum to escape her grasp and tumble out of the car.
She probably had a knife—at worst, he would be cut, bleed a little, but it wouldn't be fatal.
Orpheus rapidly calculated his plan in his mind until he saw what Mrs. Hughes was holding—a revolver.
Shit.
It was a gun!
In an instant, the cold barrel pressed against his temple.
Orpheus knew that no matter how quick he was, he could never outrun a bullet.
He had no choice but to abandon his previous plan. A few knife wounds were survivable, but a bullet...
"Madam, I think a true artist should use a knife. A gun has no soul," Orpheus said.
"My strength isn't enough to wield a knife. With a gun, Cole and old Darcy behave themselves in front of me."
"I'm different. I've met Cole—he's built like a tank. Old Darcy, despite his age, has been working in cremation for years; he's strong too.
I'm not the same.
I believe that even in a bare-knuckle fight, I wouldn't be a match for you, Madam."
"Hahaha, you're funny. See, you still think of me as a fool."
"No, Madam, the fool here is me," Orpheus replied sincerely.
Just a while ago, he'd conducted a criminal profile in front of the Chief and mocked the killer's stupidity.
And now, he was driving with the killer.
Sometimes, when someone is truly stupid enough to defy your expectations, they shift from one extreme to the other.
Meanwhile, Chief Duke was in shock at the station after receiving the news.
One was her lover, and the other was her long-time employee.
The former had just become her sugar baby, and the latter had died inside her crematorium.
It was all too clear—just putting the two deceased's identities side by side pointed directly at her.
But because Cole was from out of town, investigating his background and connections in this city took some time, which gave Mrs. Hughes room to move around freely.
This killer defied belief—she was almost brainless, killing without even trying to cover her tracks.
"Madam, may I make a suggestion? I'll drive you home now; you can sleep peacefully, and we can pretend none of this ever happened. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day, with bright sunshine and fresh air.
Don't worry, I'm very good at keeping secrets."
"You'd better stop talking now, Orpheus. Every word you say sounds like you're repeating in my ears: 'I'm stupid, I'm stupid, I'm stupid!'"
"Understood."
"I need a place, a quiet place where we won't be disturbed. I want to spend the night with you."
"It would be my honor, Madam. Where would you like to go?"
"I can't wait anymore. I've had quite a bit to drink tonight, and I'm feeling quite excited."
"I feel the same way, Madam."
"Turn at the next corner, head to No. 128. That house just got vacated, perfect for some peace and quiet."
No. 128?
Orpheus felt a bit conflicted inside.
That was a place he always asked the drivers to avoid whenever he passed by.
But at the same time, hearing Mrs. Hughes choose that house made him feel somewhat relieved.
He had a psychological shadow regarding that house.
But the situation was already as bad as it could get.
Seeing a ghost is terrifying, but in the face of death, ghosts don't seem so unbearable.
One, because nothing is scarier than death itself, and two, because when you die, you'll become one of them.
Orpheus slowly pressed the accelerator, and the car turned smoothly before stopping in front of No. 128.
Mrs. Hughes got out first, still pointing the gun at Orpheus.
"You too. Get out."
"Alright, Madam."
Orpheus got out of the car.
"Open the trunk."
Orpheus walked to the back and opened the trunk. Inside was a hiking backpack.
"Take it out."
Orpheus lifted the backpack. It was heavy, filled with tools based on the feel of it.
"Are these your brushes?" Orpheus asked.
"Yes, the brushes you once called mediocre."
"If I had known that artist was you, Madam, I would have long been worshipping at your feet."
"Move inside."
"Yes, Madam."
Pushing open the gate, Orpheus walked in with the backpack, Mrs. Hughes close behind.
Orpheus considered swinging the heavy bag at her but quickly dismissed the thought, doubting if he could even lift it effectively.
And he noticed something else—Mrs. Hughes's grip on the gun was steady.
"Do you know when I first met Mary?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
In normal logic, one running a funeral home and the other a crematorium would obviously know each other through business cooperation.
But Mary hadn't been a mortician for long, and Mr. Hughes used to run the crematorium. It was only after his passing that Mrs. Hughes took over.
"The first time I met Mary was one afternoon after I won a shooting championship. Before going on stage, Mary came to do my makeup."
"Madam, you can rest assured. I'm very timid and will do exactly as you say."
"Good, now open the door."
"I don't have a key."
Orpheus placed his hand on the doorknob.
*Click.*
The door opened.
It wasn't locked!
Orpheus didn't know that a few days ago, a young man named Lazarus had stood here, also marveling at this unlocked door.
"All the valuables have been moved out, so why lock the door?" Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Even if it were locked, I have tools in my bag to pick it open. Now, go inside."
Orpheus entered the house with the backpack.
"Keep going forward."
"Yes, Madam."
*Click!*
Mrs. Hughes turned on the lights.
"Madam, turning on the lights may attract the neighbors' attention," Orpheus cautioned.
"This is an indifferent society. I wouldn't expect a neighbor to notice whether a recently vacated house should be lit at this hour or to care enough to call the police.
And even if they did call, by the time the police arrived, everything would be long over."
"I completely agree with your view on the police, Madam. Their response time is slower than our hearse."
"Upstairs."
"Yes, Madam."
"Master bedroom."
"Yes, Madam."
"Now, put the bag down and lie on the bed."
Orpheus walked over to the bed and sat down.
Mrs. Hughes, holding the gun in one hand, squatted down and started rummaging through the tools in the bag.
"Madam, if it weren't for Aunt Mary dragging me out for barbecue tonight, you…"
"Yes, tonight, my target was supposed to be Mary. She is my best friend; I know her very well, and with her as part of my artwork, I could immerse myself in it.
Just like Cole, who knew my sensitive spots, and old Darcy, who had followed my orders for so long.
You understand, art requires resonance."
"Yes, Madam, I agree wholeheartedly."
Mrs. Hughes's lips curled into a
mocking smile.
"Isn't it all about standards?"
"Trust me, Madam, that was my blasphemy as an outsider to the sacred art. I've repented countless times in my heart."
Mrs. Hughes pulled out a knife from the bag, resembling the type used by butchers at the market—ideal for chopping bones.
"You can lie down now. Or, you can resist. This is your last chance.
Chiswick Street isn't one of those slum areas; security is generally good. So, one gunshot will definitely alarm many people. But don't worry, I can assure you that the gunshot will mean you're already full of holes."
"A very difficult choice," Orpheus sighed.
"Indeed."
"Madam, your first piece was a Berry Church religious painting, the second was from the Abyssal Church. I'm curious, your third piece... No, don't answer yet. Let me guess...
I guess it's the Order Church?"
Mrs. Hughes seemed surprised.
"Did I guess right?" Orpheus feigned excitement.
"Yes, you guessed correctly."
"I'll keep guessing... Are you paying tribute to the painting where the God of Order punishes his daughter Ancalra, 'The Light of Order'?"
"Orpheus, I have to admit, you really understand me."
"Yes, Madam. I think we share a lot in terms of aesthetics and have so much to confide in each other, so…"
"That's why I chose you, Orpheus!"
"..." Orpheus.
"In fact, you weren't Mary's substitute. My first choice for this artwork was always you. If you had come back any later this afternoon, I would have had to settle for Mary."
"Madam, I think you need to plan your creation thoroughly. Ancalra's body is fragmented."
"Yes, so I've already prepared for that. I'll chop you up. Yes, after you die, so you won't feel any pain."
"But how do you plan to depict the ravenous beast's maw? I don't want you to repeat old Darcy's regret. You know, you didn't manage to complete his piece successfully."
"This time, I have a perfect method."
At this moment,
Orpheus suddenly noticed a black spot spreading across Mrs. Hughes's face, slowly covering one of her eyes.
And when she spoke again, her voice had a man's tone, deep and rough:
"My new method of artistic presentation is to chop you into tiny pieces and then, piece by piece, eat you."
This voice was very familiar to Orpheus.
Over the phone: You interrupted my artistic creation.
It was that voice!
So, what happened to Mrs. Hughes?
She couldn't be like Piaget, disguising herself as a man. She was definitely a woman—Orpheus could confirm that, especially since she had pulled up her skirt entirely while lying in the backseat of the car earlier, revealing the thin, narrow lace underneath.
Orpheus didn't look on purpose.
But just a glance was enough to see it clearly.
So, Mrs. Hughes was definitely not a man!
And now, as she approached him step by step, it felt as if... as if she were possessed by something, filled with an obsessive and frenzied emotion.
Orpheus's eyes darted around the room, hoping to catch sight of a pair of red high heels. Unfortunately, he saw nothing.
The red he used to avoid like the plague was now something he desperately wanted to see, even if it meant kneeling down to kiss the shoe.
"Orpheus, I admit your intelligence and your artistic appreciation surpass mine, so I've decided to complete my work by eating you, thereby merging with you and inheriting all your qualities."
"I have one last request, an artistic request. I hope you can grant it."
"Speak."
Orpheus pointed at the old-fashioned tube radio.
"Madam, I think playing soft night music from that radio while you chop me would create a very beautiful scene, wouldn't it?"
Mrs. Hughes hesitated, genuinely considering the suggestion, and then:
"I think you're right."
She reached out and turned on the radio.
At that moment,
there was a crackling sound of static,
followed by a magnetic male voice emanating from the radio:
"Good evening, dear listeners. Welcome to 'Roga Storytime'…"