Chapter 4

Robert Henderson had a secret, I knew.

Because in his study’s trash can, I’d seen a pill bottle just like mine.

They were strong painkillers, specifically for late-stage cancer patients.

That day, Mom asked me to take some fruit to his study.

Robert Henderson wasn't there; he was at the hospital for dialysis.

I set down the fruit bowl and was about to leave when I saw that familiar white bottle in the wastebasket.

I picked it up and examined it.

It was a bottle for Ibuprofen extended-release capsules, but inside were morphine pills.

I’d used that trick too.

Putting life-saving medication into ordinary vitamin bottles, deceiving myself and others.

Turns out, my arrogant stepfather.

The man Chloe called a cold-hearted monster, was also quietly enduring his own hellish agony.

I put the bottle back, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing.

That night, Robert Henderson returned.

His face was paler than usual, and his steps were a little shaky.

Mom went to meet him, trying to help him.

“Don’t touch me.”

He recoiled, his voice raw with pain.

Mom’s hands froze in mid-air, her eyes welling up.

“Robert, is there something I did wrong?”

“I’m just tired.”

Robert Henderson didn’t look at her, heading straight upstairs.

As he passed me, he paused.

In that instant, I caught a strong scent of antiseptic from him.

And a faint smell of blood.

The lingering scent of dialysis.

Later that night, I woke up in pain.

The tumor in my brain was relentlessly crushing my nerves.

I was soaked in cold sweat, shivering and curled up in my blanket.

I wanted water. I got up, stumbling downstairs.

The living room lights weren't on, but I saw a dark figure on the sofa.

It was Robert Henderson, sitting there motionless.

A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, its light flickering in the gloom.

I didn’t dare make a sound, intending to quietly retreat.

“Since you’re awake, come over.”

His voice, hoarse and weary, came from the darkness.

I had no choice but to walk over.

“Mr. Henderson.”

“Do you play chess?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Play a game with me.”

I sat opposite him.

In the moonlight, I saw his face was ashen, his forehead beaded with sweat.

He was enduring pain, just like me.

We played three games of chess.

Neither of us spoke, only the crisp sound of chess pieces being placed.

He played aggressively, as if releasing something.

I played steadily.

“Are you afraid to lose?” Robert Henderson suddenly asked.

“I can’t afford to lose,” I replied, placing a piece.

Robert Henderson let out a soft chuckle.

“Life is just a losing game anyway.”

“No matter how much you struggle, you always lose in the end.”

I didn’t argue.

As dawn approached, the last game ended.

I was about to pack up the pieces and go back to my room.

Robert Henderson’s hand suddenly pressed down on the chessboard.

He looked up, his deep eyes staring directly at me.

“Jade.”

“That diagnosis hidden under your pillow.”

“How long do you plan to keep it a secret?”