Chapter 3 of She who was not expected.

Horror

The case has changed and the focus is on James Winton.

Lana Winton refused to speak, so we had to find out more.

At this time, other colleagues made new discoveries.

At 5:20 p.m., James Winton's account was transferred one hundred thousand dollars.

Grace Winton died between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m. that day, making that transfer suspicious.

My colleagues and I went to James Winton's house.

This was probably the first crime scene.

He looked nervous when he saw me.

He wiped his hands on his clothes and shook my hand.

"Why are you here, officer?"

"When will my mother be released?" "She shouldn't go to jail, right?"

This man was not as honest as he appeared, and I did not offer him any pleasantries.

His right hand froze and pulled back.

“You should worry about yourself first”, I said sternly.

"Where were you between 5 and 6 pm on the night of the incident?"

He answered quickly.

"I was at home."

Then he looked surprised.

"You don't think I killed my daughter, do you?"

He brought it up himself, cutting right to the point.

I ignored his question and kept asking him:

"Who can testify for you?"

He said,

"My wife and mother can testify for me. At the time, my wife and I were chatting at home.＂

"This is impossible." "How could I have killed my own child?"

"Even beasts don't eat their young; do I look like the sort of monster who would do that?"

Remembering the forensic's report about Grace Winton's chronic malnutrition, I thought he indeed was as bad as one could be.

But my professional discipline held me back from saying anything rash, forcing me to curse only inwardly.

James Winton said his wife was working elsewhere when the police contacted the family after the incident.

But now he says his wife was at home on the day of the incident.

Does he even know where his wife is?

Or is he hiding something?

He explained.

"My wife said she was going to work after seeing me."

I asked again:

"What did you talk about?"

James Winton's eyes rolled.

"We talked about the child's studies. It's rare for her mother to come back."

If he cared about his daughter's studies, he wouldn't have let her starve.

He wouldn't speak honestly without evidence.

His eyes were cunning. I stared at them and said,

"What about that one hundred thousand dollars transfer?"

His face paled and he sweated.

His voice trembled:

"My wife and I are getting a divorce. She gave our daughter one hundred thousand dollars in child support."

He said he and his wife were getting a divorce and she didn't want to raise the child.

I asked him again:

"Why doesn't she want to raise her?"

He seemed angry.

"What else could it be?" "That bitch is cheating on me."

These are just his words and need checking.

I took a tour around his house, an old two-bedroom apartment.

James Winton's room was inside, and Lana Winton's was outside.

I asked James Winton where his daughter lived.

He stammered, "She lives with her grandmother."

I didn't see any of Grace Winton's things in her grandmother's room.

I told James Winton with a frown:

"Who does she live with?"

James Winton's eyes avoided mine. He pointed to a corner of the room and then lowered his head. I saw a folding bed and a small table. On the table was a neat stack of textbooks. There was a hook on the wall, hanging a small, worn-out schoolbag. It seemed to contain quite a few books.

I took it down and opened it.

The schoolbag was filled with ripe mangoes.

Grace Winton didn't have her own room; this was it.

A drawer on the small table held a delicate notebook.

This was Grace Winton's most precious thing.

I opened a page and found Grace Winton's diary.

6 September.

My desk mate, Ethan Jordan, is so annoying!

Today he brought a huge mango, as big as half my face.

He said his aunt bought it for him, cost 20 dollars per kilogram.

He took a bite and said it was bad, ready to throw it away.

I hadn't eaten a mango since I was a child.