Crises in Love (Zora and Jaylan) novel Chapter 545

Our gazes locked, a silent exchange of questions swirling in our eyes. Could someone else know about the child's whereabouts here? Who could it be, Jerome?

Ronan pondered for a moment, then fired a few questions at the lady, but I was so anxious I couldn't absorb a word.

Finally, Ronan thanked the woman, emphasizing that she should keep mum about seeing us, no matter who came knocking.

The woman nodded vigorously and only then did the door firmly shut.

We stood in silence, exchanging uneasy glances.

Logan had been quiet the whole time, his expression grave.

Hannah looked towards Ronan and softly suggested, "Boss, maybe we should take a look inside?"

I gazed at Ronan, hope flooding my eyes. The message was clear that I was yearning to step inside.

Even if no one was there now, just to look around would be something. After all, my son had been here. I wanted to feel his presence up close.

Ronan looked at me, his voice dripping with indulgence, "Wanna take a look?"

I nodded eagerly, "Yeah. Can we?"

Without hesitation, Ronan gestured to Hannah, who sprang into action.

She dashed to the door, whipped out a master key, and unlocked it with a quick turn.

She looked back at me, and I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Behind this door, my dearest little boy had once lived. Here we were in Goldenvale Town, so close yet worlds apart.

Ronan stood behind me, and seeing my hesitation, he gently pulled me into the apartment.

The room was stuffy, and all windows shut tight. The place was simply decorated, an eternal monochrome, orderly, and clean as if still lingering with the faint scent of milk.

My eyes searched desperately for a trace of my child, any personal belongings, but there was nothing. It was as if someone had intentionally cleared everything out, leaving no trace of a child's presence.

I slumped onto the living room sofa, my gaze lost out the window.

The night was beautiful, and inside, the light reflected off the window, mirroring our figures. My eyes caught sight of two potted plants on the windowsill, long withered, devoid of life, mirroring my heart at that moment.

Suddenly, a woman's voice from the doorway startled us all, "Who are you people? How did you get in?"

We spun around in shock.

There, blocked at the door by Larkin, was a woman in her sixties, with ear-length hair, wearing a floral sleeveless blouse, her face drawn tight, her eyes sharp with suspicion.

Clearly, this was the quintessential neighborhood matriarch.

Hannah stepped forward, "May I ask who you are...?"

The old lady's displeasure was evident as she gave Hannah a sidelong glance, "I live downstairs. My name is Adela."

Upon hearing her introduction, a surge of joy ran through my heart. This was Adela, the downstairs resident that I had been eagerly longing to meet.