Chapter 20: The True Face of the Murderer

"Ah-choo!"

Roger sneezed, standing in the cold wind. TTJKS. TW awaits your visit.

It was already three a. m.; the neighborhood was utterly silent, save for the occasional rustling from the bushes—the sound of reptiles stepping.

Roger walked slowly along the neighborhood streets, tugging his pit bull, afraid of making too much noise.

After all, if someone mistook him for a murderer, it would be disastrous.

Jose, too, wisely stayed quiet, sniffing at interesting scents on the ground and occasionally pawing at the bushes.

After walking two streets, Roger noticed that most residents in the neighborhood loved watching TV.

Even through closed doors and wooden walls, he could faintly hear the TV's sound, and the flickering light from the screen clearly illuminated the curtains.

But upon further thought, perhaps this was more out of necessity.

Because residents of this low-income neighborhood simply lacked a sense of security; if they didn't show that someone was home, they were easy targets for robbery and theft.

Like Fiona, as Natasha described, who slept every night in the living room—not because the sofa was more comfortable than the bed.

But because she had to guard the doors and windows, so she could strike back the moment an intruder broke in.

Roger believed Mrs. Fiona definitely kept a gun within reach.

Yet because most people left their TVs on, it became hard to hear sounds from outside.

Perhaps this was also why two consecutive murders in the neighborhood had gone unnoticed for so long.

He quickly circled the street, found nothing unusual, then turned back toward Mrs. Fiona's house.

At the same time, faint footsteps approached Mrs. Fiona's front door.

The sound seemed to come from every empty alley, yet also echoed as if rising from underground—each step landing with an unnatural reverberation.

Then the footsteps vanished. In the darkness, a blurred shape appeared, its blazing eyes fixed on the house, filled with greed and probing.

Soon, the black shadow drew closer, its footsteps creaking loudly on the wooden porch—but no one stirred.

Inside the living room, the TV played a Black comedian's stand-up. Artificial laughter erupted intermittently, yet Mrs. Fiona lay with her eyes closed, head tilted back on the sofa, snoring softly.

Natasha, too, slept soundly in the room, sprawled awkwardly, one hand resting on her chest beneath her strapless nightgown.

Not long after, the lock emitted a sharp metallic click—like the scream of a woman being murdered in a movie—then abruptly cut off.

Mrs. Fiona turned her head and continued sleeping.

"Creak… creak…"

The old wooden floor groaned under unbearable strain.

The sound slowly passed Mrs. Fiona, its destination unmistakably Natasha's room.

On the other side, Roger returned to Mrs. Fiona's garage.

He listened to the TV inside the living room, found nothing amiss, then prepared to open the garage door and rest for a moment.

But as he tried to unlock the door with his key, he suddenly froze.

"Strange… weren't the curtains drawn tighter before?"

Roger clearly remembered Mrs. Fiona never fully closed the curtains—she always left a small gap, last night and tonight alike.

But just now, glancing over, he saw the curtains were now completely shut.

"Maybe Mrs. Fiona woke up and pulled them shut?"

"No need to be paranoid."

Yet somehow, Roger circled around to the backyard to inspect carefully.

From here, he could see Natasha's window and the kitchen window.

If he peered closely through the kitchen window, he could see into the living room.

But when Roger reached the kitchen window, he discovered it wasn't closed—instead, it had been opened a crack!

"Mrs. Fiona forgot to close the window!"

Roger stepped forward and peered through the kitchen window into the living room.

And in the next second!

"What the fuck!"

Instantly, a jolt like electricity shot through him—his scalp prickled, sweat broke out cold.

For he clearly saw a shadow lurking, reflected on the curtain by the TV screen—opposite the shadow on the sofa!

And that shadow held a rope in its hand!

'Shit! That's not Mrs. Fiona!'

Roger's heart pounded—he knew he had encountered the serial killer.

He quickly pulled out his phone and sent a text to Juan, then called him.

Then he stuffed the phone in his pocket, drew his pistol from his waist, and quietly pushed open the kitchen window, rolling inside.

Roger crept toward the living room door like a silent spider.

But the moment he stepped out of the kitchen, the heavy, groaning sound of the floor suddenly echoed again.

'Shit!'

Roger cursed inwardly, gripped his pistol, and aimed it at the living room door.

The intruder seemed to sense something—the motion of tightening the rope halted, and he turned toward the living room entrance.

"Creak… creak…"

The floorboards creaked faintly, signaling the intruder's approach.

Roger swallowed his saliva, took a deep breath, sidestepped slightly, and slipped into the shadows.

Soon, the figure stepped out of the living room door and stood inside the kitchen.

He scanned the surroundings warily, then slowly drew his axe from his waist.

But the next moment, a violent wind rushed at him from behind his head!

"Bang!"

Roger unleashed every ounce of strength he had and punched the man's nape.

The man grunted, then collapsed without resistance.

"Thud!"

Seeing this, Roger immediately kicked the axe from the man's hands and turned on the kitchen light.

What met his eyes was a white man with shattered glasses, his skin flushed unnaturally red, as if he were drunk.

At this moment, the white man was still struggling to rise.

But Roger gave him no chance—he straddled him and pounded him with relentless fists!

In just a few blows, he saw foam seep from the man's mouth as he passed out.

"Phew…" Roger's chest heaved a few times, then he rushed into the living room.

Despite the violent struggle, Fiona was still unconscious, her body tightly bound to the chair with ropes—if Roger hadn't appeared, she would have faced a brutal murder.

"Damn."

Roger slapped Fiona's face; seeing no reaction, he quickly grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and poured it over her face.

"Plop!"

Fiona stirred awake under the shock of cold water.

When she opened her eyes and saw Roger's worried expression, she instinctively asked: "Why are you here? What are you doing?"

"Listen to me, Mrs. Fiona," Roger quickly summarized the events, then dragged the white-eyed man inside.

When Fiona heard it all and realized she was bound, a wave of dread surged through her.

"He's Jimi—he's from the neighborhood!"

She recognized the white man's identity, filled with fury: "I never thought it was him! That bastard—his wife even brought over an apple pie today."

"Apple pie?" Roger recalled what he'd seen today and realized: "He slipped sleeping pills into the pie—shit!"

As he spoke, he picked up scissors to cut the ropes binding Mrs. Fiona.

But just as he severed one rope, Mrs. Fiona suddenly stared in terror behind Roger and shouted: "Run!"