Charles Mcintosh's men quickly arrived. Charles still had a trace of alcohol on him, but his mind was clear.
When Charles saw Sylvan Cheney, Sylvan was holding an umbrella.
Perhaps the wind was too strong, his shoulder was half wet, and his black trench coat was covered in water stains.
His bangs were also wet, and his reddened eyes were filled with exhaustion and grief.
"Mr. Cheney," Charles jumped out of the car, "The police will be here soon, but there are still no leads. I'll help you search together."
"Charles," Sylvan called his name softly in the rain, his voice hoarse, "Do you think Jasmine left on her own?"
Charles paused: "I don't think so. Miss Yale has always been very obedient. Besides, it's raining heavily, and she didn't bring an umbrella."
He had long thought that Jasmine Yale couldn't have left on her own.
A young girl might play the runaway game to make Sylvan worry.
But Jasmine Yale wouldn't.
Her love for Sylvan was crystal clear to him.
