Page 3 of After my daughter’s suicide, I’m searching for the real culprit

I'd already seen those pieces of evidence George had shown me countless times. All of them pointed to Eliza's suicide.

But I wasn't satisfied with any of that evidence.

Those so-called pieces of evidence were nothing but carefully fabricated lies, shields used to cover up the truth.

I continued holding the scalpel, gently sliding it across Rosie's arm, leaving a shallow trail of blood.

I said to George, "George, you know damn well this isn't the evidence I want."

My voice was ice-cold, sharp as a poisoned blade. "I want the real killer. I want evidence of who violated my daughter. I want those things you've gone to great lengths to hide. Stop trying to fool me with this fake garbage. Otherwise, next time it won't just be her fingers that get destroyed."

George's face instantly turned pale.

But he still insisted, "This is the evidence. These things clearly show that your daughter Eliza committed suicide."

Millie rushed toward the camera like a madwoman, crying hysterically.

She screamed at me, "You psycho! Let my child go! We've given you all the evidence. What more do you want?"

Watching her breakdown, I let out a bitter laugh.

I said, "We're both mothers. You can't bear to see your child suffer, and I can't accept my daughter dying for nothing."

At that moment, the livestream chat was once again flooded with viewers' curses.

[The evidence is right in front of her face. She just refuses to accept it!]

[She's got some kind of persecution complex, right?]

[We live in a society ruled by law now. I really don't know what she's still making a fuss about.]

The viewers' abuse was worse than before, but I couldn't hear any of it.

My eyes could only see the truth that refused to surface and the image of Eliza's death.

Time passed second by second. Each second felt like it was slowly cutting through my heart, while also counting down to the next part of Rosie's body that would be destroyed.

By the third chance, they were still trying to fool me with fake evidence.

I knew they were stalling for time. They were figuring out how to deal with me, but I wouldn't give them that chance.

I steeled myself and severed the tendons in Rosie's hand.

I said, "George, I have time to waste with you, but your daughter doesn't. What's it going to be? Are you really going to sacrifice your own flesh and blood to protect a criminal?"

George couldn't speak. His hands hung at his sides, clenched into tight fists, his whole body trembling.

Millie had already passed out.

The police were still trying to persuade me, even bringing in my teacher, Hugo Miller.

Standing in front of the camera, Hugo squinted his bloodshot, cloudy eyes at me and said, "Freya, you used to speak for the people. How can you hurt the people now? I know Eliza is dead, and you're heartbroken. But listen to medon't go down the wrong path."

Looking at this man who had once loved me like his own daughter, my heart ached terribly.

Hugo had personally performed Eliza's autopsy, yet he was hiding the truth.

I asked Hugo, "You watched Eliza grow up. Didn't your heart ache when you were performing her autopsy? Why are you helping them hide the truth too?"

I couldn't understand why everyone was helping the killer cover things up.

Hugo sighed and said, "Freya, Eliza really did commit suicide. I'm not lying to you. The police aren't lying to you. Neither are the prosecutor's office or the judge."

After finishing, he exchanged a glance with George, then called in a girl who was standing by the door.

Hugo explained to me, "Eliza committed suicide because of depression. This girl can testify to that."

Seeing the girl in front of the camera, I froze.

That girl was Eliza's best friend, Elsie Jones.

Elsie spoke up in front of everyone.

She said, "Freya, I can testify. Eliza suffered from depression. She had suicidal thoughts."

Elsie's words left me frozen in place.

It took me a long while to snap back to reality, unable to believe what I'd just heard.

I stared at Elsie's evasive eyes, my heart feeling like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain making it almost impossible to breathe.

Elsie was Eliza's closest friend when she was alive. They were as close as sisters. She often came to our house for dinner and would sleep in the same bed as Eliza, sharing their secrets. How could she come forward with such false testimony?

I remembered that just the day before Eliza's accident, she had excitedly told me that she and Elsie had gotten into the same college. They had made plans to visit Washington together after the semester started, to sightsee and try all the local food.

When Eliza told me these things, her voice was full of anticipation and excitement. How could this possibly be the state of someone suffering from depression with suicidal thoughts?

I tried to keep my voice calm, but my slightly trembling hands betrayed my emotions. "Elsie, look me in the eyes and tell meis what you're saying true? When did Eliza tell you she had depression? Did she go to a hospital? Is there a medical diagnosis?"

Elsie wouldn't look me in the eye, her voice barely audible: "Before the SAT exam, Eliza said she was afraid of disappointing you if she couldn't get into a Washington school. She said the academic pressure was too much, that she felt life had no meaning."

"That's nonsense!" I suddenly raised my voice, cutting her off.

"Eliza's grades were always excellent. Getting into a Washington university was her dream. How could she want to die because of academic pressure? You're lying! Did someone force you to say this? Was it the killer? Or George?" I paused, then looked toward Hugo. "Or was it Hugo?"

Elsie shook her head and pulled an envelope from her pocket.

She opened the envelope and took out a piece of paper.

Elsie said, "Freya, no one threatened me. Eliza really did commit suicide. This is her suicide note."

She unfolded Eliza's suicide note and held it up to the camera for me to see.

The note read: [Mom, I'm sorry. I can't go on living.]

I stared at that suicide note, my heart aching like it was being pierced by needles.

The handwriting on the note was indeed Eliza's, and the police had provided handwriting analysis results.

In that moment, I began to doubt my own judgment.

Had Eliza really committed suicide because of depression? Had I really failed to notice her psychological condition?

In my daze, I noticed a particular phrase in the suicide note.

Because of that phrase, I finally understood why Eliza's death had been ruled a suicide.