Chapter 217 The two brothers rushed home, barely noticing the sinister gaze that followed them from the shadows. Cloaked in black, the masked figure whispered eerily, “Naughty boys, never listening, heh, naughty boys, never listening.” Suddenly, a stray cat emerged from the bushes. With a swift motion, the figure caught it. His hands were pale and elegant, nails clean and fingers slender – clearly not the hands of a laborer. He caressed the stray cat’s head gently, murmuring, “Naughty ones get punished…” With a chilling snap, he twisted the cat’s neck, killing it instantly before it could even cry out. After performing such a brutal act, he tenderly stroked the cat, dug a small grave, and carefully buried it, whispering, “Sleep now, sleep now…” That night, Jindale City was hit by a torrential downpour, as if foreshadowing some looming disaster. Elijah had been discharged and was back at Sunshine Community. Tarquin stood before his study window, sleepless through the stormy night. As dawn broke, the rain persisted, and so did he, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar figure below. But Elijah had woken, and Elysia was nowhere to be seen. The breakfast table was laden with an assortment of dishes, some brought over by Heath from the mansion, some cooked by Tarquin himself. Elijah scanned the table, frowning at Tarquin. “Your usual breakfast courier was unavailable today. Please, help yourself to what’s here,” Tarquin explained. Elijah remained silent, then turned and retreated to his room, locking the door behind him. It wasn’t to his taste. He chose not to eat. Heath looked worried, “Elijah seems to have grown accustomed to Ms. Thorne’s cooking. If it’s not by her hand, he refuses to eat. What do we do?” Tarquin gazed toward Elijah’s room, his brows furrowed. He was worried about his son but also angry with Elysia for possibly abandoning Elijah, just as the rumors suggested. Yet, he knew he had no right to be angry. Elysia’s help had always been voluntary, and considering recent events, her hesitation was understandable. “Pack it all up,” he sighed, losing his appetite as well. Just as he lit a cigarette in his study, Lowell called with urgent news. “Tarquin, there’s trouble with Ms. Thorne.” Tarquin’s forehead creased as he asked, “What happened?” “Allegra was attacked last night. Fingerprints of Ms. Thorne’s eldest son were found on her, and she’s accusing Ms. Thorne of attempted murder, claiming it was a plot to kill her.” Attempted murder was a serious accusation. Tarquin’s expression darkened. “And now?” “The police are involved. Given the Bradford family’s influence, the authorities might be biased. If we don’t step in, Ms. Thorne could be at a disadvantage.” Without hesitation, Tarquin put out his cigarette, grabbed his car keys, and dashed out, forgetting his umbrella in his rush. He only realized it when faced with the pouring rain at the doorstep. Frowning, he braved the downpour. Continuing the conversation in his car, he asked, “Why would Elysia’s eldest son’s fingerprints be on Allegra?” “That’s still unclear.” “Have they found who attacked Allegra?” “Not yet. She was found in the park by police last night, but someone tampered with the park’s surveillance. There’s no way to trace who brought her there or how.” “Elysia’s son is only five, right? How could he be involved?”