Timmy Roy was dumbfounded by the slap. His face stung, and the anger he'd felt toward Russell's sneering and humiliation had faded considerably. The only thing left was the realization that his reputation was now ruined.
"A-Annie, you—"
Before he could finish, another girl rushed in.
"Scumbag!"
Isabella White's usually enchanting face was now bright red. She dealt Timmy another merciless slap.
Smack!
Perfect symmetry—left, then right.
Suppressing laughter broke out from the crowd. Even Timmy's friends, who at first wanted to intervene, slunk away, afraid to become collateral damage. Timmy was a pastor's son, but others attended who were from families nearly as influential.
Timmy stood frozen. His gaze moved over once-friendly faces now cold and contemptuous, and among the crowd, ex-lovers looked at him as though longing to skin him alive.
At that moment, only one thought welled up in his mind: How could those damned letters be here?
"This can't be real!" Timmy Roy shouted. "It's slander! All made up!"
His eyes turned at once to the perpetrator directly beside him—the man who still held him, whom he could not break free from except to receive another slap. Russell Watson!
"It was you!" Timmy Roy roared like a cornered beast. "You did all this!"
"Mr. Roy, say whatever you want to eat, but don't just spout nonsense." Russell shrugged innocently. "I'm only defending the legitimate rights of those poor ladies. And, incidentally, I have to thank that reporter for everything."
The mention caused Timmy's pupils to contract.
"Reporter… what reporter?!"
"The journalist I met on the tram—Clark Kent," Russell said honestly. "After talking a bit, and learning I attended Imperial College, he gave me the letters. He hoped I would help the lost ladies find justice."
"Clark Kent?" Timmy's expression froze. He recognized the name. That timid reporter he'd once mistaken for someone else; why did he have these now…?
"Yes." Russell nodded. "Black-rimmed glasses, very sincere man. You know him too?"
Timmy's pupils quivered. That reporter. That damn reporter. The one from some third-rate newspaper…!
"He's Moriarty!" Timmy Roy screamed. "Not a reporter, but the infamous thief!"
The moment he said it, the whole room froze, leaving only Timmy struggling.
"Let me go! Russell Watson, let me go!"
If that damn reporter was the thief…
If that thief had broken into his house…
Was it really just to steal a few worthless love letters?
"Didn't you hear? I said let me go, Russell Watson!"
Timmy shouted, but Russell met his gaze calmly—then smiled.
"What's the rush?"
He placed a hand lightly on Timmy's shoulder.
"You say that reporter is the thief Moriarty—interesting theory, Mr. Roy. But where's your proof?"
"Two days ago, when I got home, I saw a man loitering on a chair outside, acting suspicious. He studied the layout of my house for tonight's operation!"
Timmy Roy was almost shrieking. "He's Moriarty! The thief!"
"All right, all right, suit yourself," Russell nodded as if indulging him. "But if you say so, that's some sort of evidence, no? Will you admit, then, that these letters were stolen from your house? Do you admit that's your fridge?"
"I…"
"Wasn't it you who said I'm slandering you?"
"I…"
Timmy fell silent, his complexion visibly worsening.
Russell maintained his gentle smile, each word nudging Timmy toward the abyss.
"Of course, there's a simpler way," Russell continued. "Let's say this is all true. If I forged the letters, if Clark Kent himself was fake… then, Mr. Timmy Roy, among all the ladies here, which is your one and only true love?"
Russell smiled wider, releasing Timmy's hand and gently smoothing his rumpled collar, as though he were a misguided little brother.
"Go on, tell everyone, Mr. Roy. Which beautiful girl in this room do you wish to spend your life with?"
Russell stepped back, giving Timmy full center stage. Invisible spotlights seemed to focus on him.
Timmy, soaking wet, stood in the middle. Wine and shame dripped from his hair, his cheeks marked with handprints. He looked around, finding only cold, mocking, and satisfied stares. His so-called friends had long withdrawn to the corners, pretending to examine the murals; his ex-lovers stood, arms crossed, judging him with icy expressions.
What could he say? There was no exit. Russell Watson's carefully laid web left no escape.
Timmy's lips trembled, cold sweat dripping down.
[Timmy Roy's sanity breaks; severe psychological shock, malice +100]
"What's the matter, Mr. Roy? Can't decide, or just tired of standing?"
Russell drew over a chair and laid it at Timmy's feet. "Sit down first and talk. Everyone's watching." He placed a hand kindly on Timmy's shoulder. "Please, Mr. Timmy Roy, sit."
….
Bonus chapter 100 PS