Chapter 8 Question Mark

Feng Bujue followed the butler upstairs. As he passed the landing, he noticed a duffel bag tossed aside. It must have been dropped by young Master Jack when he heard the gunshot.

A minute or so later, Feng Bujue followed Henderson to the master bedroom on the second floor. The door was open, and the sounds of a heated argument drifted out.

One voice, clearly Dennis, shouted emotionally, "This is none of your business! Jack!"

Jack retorted just as fiercely, "Hey! I'm not a three-year-old anymore. I have a right to know what you said to Dad that made him blow a fuse!"

"Enough!" A third voice boomed, one that was unfamiliar to Feng Bujue. It sounded deep and powerful. "All of you, shut up!"

Bang—

Another gunshot, from the sound of it, the same gun.

By this time, Odetta and Carol had also arrived, drawn by the noise. They appeared from the other end of the corridor.

"Oh, my God! What's going on…" Odetta said with a worried expression.

Carol's expression mirrored hers, appearing uneasy.

They weren't the only ones drawn by the gunshot. The maid, Oliver, whom Feng Bujue had seen before, the gardener, Barton, and another man he hadn't seen before, a tall, thin man in his fifties wearing glasses, also appeared in the corridor. Everyone's faces held a mixture of shock and uncertainty, and they all muttered things like, "What happened?" and "I heard a gunshot."

"Master, young masters…" The butler Henderson was the first to step inside. "This…"

No one answered him. An oppressive silence fell over the room.

Feng Bujue didn't care about any of that. He quietly approached and peered into the room over Henderson's shoulder. There were three people in the bedroom: Dennis, Jack, and, of course, the master of the Lovecraft household.

To most people, Dennis's appearance would be considered tall and handsome, but compared to his father, his aura and presence were far inferior.

The head of the family had a face that was hard to forget. His features were stern, his contours distinct, his eyes cold and composed. Every gesture exuded the authority of someone in power, giving off a feeling of transcendence, unquestionable status, and invulnerability.

"Hmm… no wonder he could marry a woman thirty years younger than himself. He's got the presence, alright," Feng Bujue thought, his eyes darting around, observing every detail in the bedroom.

The master was sitting in an armchair, wearing a crimson robe, holding a silver-bodied, wooden-handled Colt revolver in his hand, a classic six-shooter, the barrel still smoking.

Dennis and Jack were standing a couple of meters away from him, seemingly uninjured.

"Tch… so he just fired a warning shot at the ceiling…" Feng Bujue thought, his penchant for stirring up trouble rather distasteful. "So that's what the question mark in the last chapter's title was about…"

"Coleridge!" The tall, thin man in the corridor rushed forward. "Excuse me, please." He squeezed past Feng Bujue and Henderson, entered the bedroom, and said to the master, "Coleridge, have you lost your mind… put the gun down. What if someone gets hurt?"

"Yeah… if you commit the crime in front of so many people, how am I supposed to stretch this out for thirty-three chapters…" Feng Bujue mentally quipped.

"Hmph…" Coleridge placed the gun on the small table beside the chair, took a deep breath, and then looked up at his two sons and said, "You two, get out."

Dennis and Jack exchanged a look, full of animosity, but neither of them said anything and simply obeyed their father's order and left the room.

"Powell, you stay. I have something to say to you," Coleridge said to the tall, thin man, who was apparently the "Doctor Powell" that Odetta had mentioned earlier.

After the two sons left the room, Coleridge gestured for Powell to close the door.

The atmosphere in the corridor was a little awkward. Everyone clearly had their own speculations about what Dennis and Coleridge had said earlier, and therefore, everyone's eyes were conveying a particular emotion.

"Darling, are you alright?" Carol came up and took her husband's hand with concern.

"Don't worry, darling…" Dennis was good at hiding his true emotions. After walking out of the room, his expression had returned to normal. "Father was just… angry about some trivial matters. You know, his temper has been getting worse and worse in recent years. I think it might be related to his illness."

"Ha! Sounds so convincing," Jack sneered and turned to leave.

"Is that how you talk to your brother?" Dennis said loudly.

"You should be glad I don't have a gun," Jack said lightly. Perhaps he didn't think much of it, but the implication of this joke was very dangerous. In Feng Bujue's opinion, if Dennis was killed soon after, this line could basically serve as a key suspect flag.

After Jack finished speaking, he headed toward the stairs, presumably to retrieve the luggage he had dropped. Dennis snorted coldly and didn't call him back.

As an outsider, Feng Bujue naturally couldn't interject. He simply observed the reactions of the crowd without saying a word… the butler Henderson, the gardener Barton, the maid Oliver, Mrs. Carol, and Mrs. Odetta. In Brother Jue's opinion, they were all hiding some unspeakable secrets.

"Alright, everyone, disperse. There's nothing to see here. It's all over," Dennis said loudly, dismissing the crowd. As he spoke, he noticed that Feng Bujue was also present, so he stepped forward and said, "Oh, Mr. Feng, I'm so sorry that you had to witness this. Well… my father used to be a soldier. That gun is a souvenir from the war…"

Feng Bujue wasn't interested in this perfunctory explanation. He replied directly in a very open-minded tone, "Oh, it's alright. I'm used to this kind of scene. I'm a detective, after all."

These words seemed to freeze the air. Those who were leaving all noticeably paused, and even Jack, who had already walked away, turned back to look at Feng Bujue.

The expressions on Dennis and his wife's faces also changed slightly. Although the latter had mentioned this when they were chatting with Feng Bujue in the car, Dennis and Carol didn't take it seriously at the time. A car crash survivor with a minor concussion who couldn't even remember his own birthday or the era he lived in could say he was an astronaut for all they cared…

However, at this moment, Feng Bujue had cleaned himself up and changed into clean clothes. Looking him up and down, the man had bright eyes, was physically sound, and spoke clearly and concisely. It seemed… he really might be a detective.