Chapter 503 The Murderer Scarlett
The morning sunlight filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting a warm glow into the hospital room.
Emma quietly pushed open the door, holding a bouquet of fresh white baby's breath.
Charles loved these simple flowers, saying they reminded him of stars twinkling in the night sky.
"Hey, Grandpa, I'm here," she whispered, placing the flowers in a glass vase by the bedside.
Charles, lying in the hospital bed, moved his fingers slightly, a glimmer of light appearing in his cloudy eyes.
Ever since taking the special medicine from that peculiar doctor, Charles had been improving day by day. He could now utter simple syllables, though speaking was still a struggle.
Emma skillfully wrung out a towel and gently wiped Charles' wrinkled face. Her touch was as tender as if she were handling a newborn, afraid of causing him any pain.
"Feeling better today?" she asked while straightening the bed covers.
Charles' lips trembled, and he managed to produce a faint syllable, "Yes."
Emma smiled and held Charles' frail hand. These hands had once commanded great power in the business world, but now they were too weak to even hold a cup.
A pang of sorrow hit her as she remembered how Charles had always doted on her.
"Grandpa, do you remember what you ate the day before you got sick?" she asked cautiously, a question she had been investigating for some time.
Charles' eyes suddenly sharpened, and his fingers gripped the bedsheet tightly, a guttural sound escaping his throat.
"Don't worry, take your time," Emma quickly reassured him, offering a glass of warm water.
Charles took a sip and then grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. He raised his other hand, pointing towards the door, his eyes filled with anger and fear.
"Scar..." he struggled to say.
Emma's heart skipped a beat. "Scarlett?"
Charles nodded vigorously, a tear rolling down his cheek.
A chill ran down Emma's spine. She should have known.
Scarlett had always resented Charles' favoritism towards her and hated that Charles insisted George marry her instead of a more socially suitable match.
Of course, Scarlett's biggest grudge was that Emma and Michael had taken over the Russell Group.
"Did she poison you?" Emma's voice trembled.
Charles closed his eyes and nodded again, as if it took all his strength.
Emma bit her lip, holding back tears.
She remembered that day at the nursing home when she had given her grandfather cake and made sure he drank water from the thermos to avoid choking.
Could it be that the water was...
"I'll find out the truth, Grandpa," she promised softly. "I won't let her hurt you again."
Charles released her hand and closed his eyes in exhaustion.
Emma sat quietly by his side, her mind racing. She needed evidence, solid proof.
In the afternoon, while Charles napped, Emma went to the hospital pharmacy.
As the lady of the Russell family, it was easy for her to access Charles' medication records.
A familiar name kept appearing on the prescriptions for special drugs: Orion Lewis, Scarlett's cousin.
"Is Dr. Lewis in today?" she asked the pharmacy nurse casually.
"Dr. Lewis? He's on leave for two weeks, said he had some family matters," the nurse replied without looking up.
Emma smirked inwardly. How convenient. Just as Charles started to recover, the accomplice in the poisoning had "family matters"?
Back in the hospital room, she discreetly checked Charles' personal belongings.
In the depths of the bedside drawer, she found a crumpled receipt from a herbal market in the south of the city, listing a rare herb that matched the toxin found in Charles' body.
The date on the receipt was the day before Charles fell ill.
And the signature was unmistakably Scarlett's handwriting.
Emma's hands trembled slightly. The evidence was clear; she could call the police right now.
But then she thought of George... He was already in a precarious situation. If it came out that his mother had poisoned his grandfather...
She hesitated.
That evening, after helping Charles with dinner, Emma was about to leave when she overheard two nurses whispering in the hallway.
"George Russell from the Russell family is being discharged tomorrow. It's a miracle, considering how severe his injuries were..."
"Shh, keep it down. But isn't it strange? He clearly..." The nurse's voice dropped, and Emma slowed her steps.
"...vision test results...pupils reacting to light...pretending..."
Snippets of their conversation reached her ears, and Emma stopped abruptly.
Were they talking about George? What was wrong with his vision?
She wanted to ask more, but the nurses had already turned into another room.
Emma stood there, her heart racing. Did George have eye problems? Why? Was it because of the accident?
A flood of questions overwhelmed her. The day's revelations were too much to process.
Stepping out of the hospital, the night breeze brushed her cheeks. Emma stood at the edge of the light and shadow, her gaze drifting towards the familiar hospital room down the hall.
Her fingers clutched her bag strap tightly, her knuckles turning white from the pressure.
Since George had gotten hurt protecting her, her heart felt torn in two. One half wanted to rush in and get answers, while the other half reminded her to keep her distance.
"Forget it. Since we're apart, let's be good exes," she whispered to herself, as if giving herself a final warning.
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to turn away, her heels clicking sharply on the tiles as she walked out of the hospital.
She leaned against the cold stone wall outside, closing her eyes.
"Staying out of each other's way is for the best." The words cut into her heart like a dull knife.
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, Emma was already busy in the kitchen.
She carefully prepared a pot of nourishing porridge, cooking the rice until it was soft and adding a few gentle herbs.
Charles had been struggling with his appetite lately, so she had consulted the hospital's nutritionist and adjusted the recipe repeatedly, hoping he would eat a bit more.
She wrapped the thermos in a towel to keep the porridge warm.
When she pushed open the hospital room door, her eyes instinctively glanced down the hall.
George's room was open, the bed neatly made, and all his personal items gone.
"He's discharged?" The realization made her pause, nearly dropping the thermos.
She forced a wry smile and muttered to herself, "Good, less awkward this way."
The words sounded light, but they couldn't hide the inexplicable sense of loss in her heart.
In Charles' room, he was sitting in a wheelchair, staring out the window.
Sunlight streamed through the glass, outlining his hunched figure in a lonely silhouette.
Hearing the door open, Charles slowly turned his wheelchair, his cloudy eyes lighting up at the sight of Emma, his cracked lips trembling slightly.
"Grandpa, I brought you some porridge," Emma said, quickly walking over and kneeling to meet his gaze.
She gently held his frail hands, feeling the raised veins and rough skin.
Charles' lips moved, struggling to form a few syllables, "Good..."
Each syllable seemed to drain all the strength he had left.
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