Chapter 147: Millard Thompson

Inside the villa.

Upon hearing the news of her husband’s death from Roan, Marianne’s expression turned to one of utter disbelief. She covered her mouth, her eyes reddening as she sank onto the sofa. A few minutes later, having composed herself, she said in a choked voice:

"Brent and I had been married for ten years. I thought we would be together forever, but..."

Mona, seated on the sofa, handed her a tissue and asked in a low voice, "What happened between you two?"

"Brent only cared about his work."

At the mention of Mona’s question, it was as if a switch had been flipped. Marianne continued, her words tumbling out:

"Before we were married, he was busy, but he always came home. After we married, he was constantly traveling for business, always preoccupied with work. Even when he was home, he would just stay in his study..."

Mona looked up and glanced at Roan. Roan blinked, unsure of what Mona meant.

"I just couldn't take it anymore," Marianne continued, still pouring out her heart. "Most of the time after we married, I was all alone. What is the point of a marriage like that? I was so lonely..."

Roan rested his chin on his hand and nodded. If there was a blockage, it needed clearing—that was what plumbers were for.

As she spoke, Marianne noticed the strange look in Mona’s eyes. She paused, then hurriedly waved her hand. "But I still loved Brent. I would never do anything to hurt him."

Mona replied, expressionless, "Your divorce records don't seem to reflect that."

"That was just about money." Marianne sighed. "You know how it is. Once money gets involved, things always get complicated."

At that moment, Roan received a text message from Ryder. The forensics report was in: Brent Hughes’s time of death was approximately 11:30 PM last night, and the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head from a 9mm bullet.

After tapping a reply to confirm receipt and express his thanks, Roan put his phone away and turned his gaze toward Marianne, asking in a deep voice:

"Where were you around 11:30 PM last night?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Marianne froze, her face instantly flushing red. She shouted, "I told you! I wouldn't hurt Brent!"

"This is just a routine inquiry." Roan ignored her hysteria and continued, his expression stone-faced. "When one spouse dies, the other is always a primary person of interest. My question is meant to clear your name, so please calm down and answer me properly."

"Hmph!" Marianne scoffed. She took a sip of water from the table and replied coldly, "I spent the entire night at an art exhibition in Manhattan. There is security footage there. If you suspect me, you are welcome to go and investigate."

"Understood." Roan recorded the address of the gallery in his notebook with a blank expression, then continued, "What about Millard Thompson? Was he with you last night?"

"No." At the mention of Millard’s name, a flicker of light crossed Marianne’s eyes. She shook her head, indicating that Millard never cared for such things. She then quickly added, "It couldn't have been Millard. Even though they didn't get along, Millard is a good man. He isn't capable of murder!"

Roan, who had been observing her expressions, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, leaving her statement unchallenged. After scribbling a few notes in his book, he asked, "Do you know where Millard was last night?"

"He went out drinking with friends."

Seeing Roan targeting Millard Thompson again, Marianne angrily pulled out her phone. "I’ll call Millard back right now! You can ask him yourselves; he is definitely not the one who killed Brent!"

Mona’s mouth twitched, and Roan’s brow furrowed. Either Marianne truly believed in Millard's innocence, or...

Mona looked at Roan, and he returned her gaze. Both of them silently prepared their sidearms.

Ten minutes later, a brand-new red sedan pulled up to the villa gate. Seeing the car through the window, Marianne smiled: "Millard is back."

"OK." Roan and Mona nodded. But before they could speak, the driver of the red sedan caught sight of the black SUV parked outside the villa. The car, which had been slowing down, suddenly accelerated and sped away.

"F***!" Mona cursed. As she prepared to dash out of the villa toward the SUV, Roan grabbed her arm.

"?" Mona looked at him, confused. Roan leaned toward her ear and whispered quickly, "Keep an eye on Marianne."

With that, Roan sprinted to the SUV and floored the accelerator in pursuit.

Watching the SUV disappear in the blink of an eye, Mona remained silent for a second, a smirk playing on her lips, before turning back into the villa.

—

In the southern villa district of New York, a red sedan tore down the road at high speed.

Some startled drivers who happened to be passing by were just about to shout their frustrations when a black flash—faster than the car they had just seen—roared past them.

The black SUV sped down the road. Roan sat in the driver's seat, calm and collected, his hands steady on the steering wheel as he ignored the shock and rage of the other drivers. He had already notified the NYPD patrols in the area, and they were on their way. In this wealthy neighborhood, the police were always quick to respond to the slightest disturbance.

Millard Thompson, driving his new car, watched the scenery blur past his windows, his heart pounding uncontrollably. It was the first time he had ever driven this fast. Fortunately, it was a residential district with little traffic, or he surely would have crashed by now.

Seeing the black SUV—which had been trailing him but was now closing the distance—Millard felt his throat go dry.

Suddenly, the distance between the black SUV and his red sedan began to stabilize. Millard thought the SUV had reached its top speed and sighed in relief. But when he checked his rearview mirror, he saw that Roan, at the wheel of the SUV, looked completely relaxed. When Roan noticed Millard watching him, he even waved and gave a smile!

Millard’s pupils dilated, and his hair stood on end. Before he could shout a curse, the wail of sirens appeared in the distance.

Identifying the red sedan as the target, two officers leaped from a police cruiser and quickly laid out portable spike strips across the road.

"Sh*t!" Millard cursed at the sight of the spikes. He slammed on his brakes and yanked the steering wheel, intending to swerve into the oncoming lane.

At that exact moment, Roan, driving the SUV, calmly drew his Glock 18 with his left hand, aimed at the sedan, and pulled the trigger.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—