The Runaway Groom
Chapter 342

Chapter 342

There was a small white bottle, a switchblade, and a lighter.

None of them were particularly deadly, but with a little work, it could still inflict damage to the human body.

Quincy therefore had to act calm. “We're in a police station.”

Stan chuckled. “We know that, so we won't do anything stupid. That said, I'm quite close with that officer just now, so he’s willing to give us some space.”

Quinc'ys face paled, even as Stan took off his tie and stuffed it into her mouth.

Isaac rose to his feet as well, picking up the switchblade and ejecting the blade-it was not particularly huge, but very sharp.

“I can do it, sir,” Stan said, walking up to him.

Isaac, however, stayed silent as he walked around the table toward Quincy and pressed the blade against Quincy's face.

He just needed to apply little pressure, and the blade would cut through Quincy's skin.

Quincy could only whimper, her pupils dilating as her whole body stiffened.

She felt like she was meat on the butcher's table, and it was even more terrifying than the prospect of death.

After all, death was easy-one would not know it after the fact.

On the other hand, spiritual torment certainly left one wishing they were dead.

“You pushed me into that pond during my own parents’ funeral.” As Isaac spoke, he slid the switchblade from Quincy's face to her neck, and she did not move at all-she was basically frozen.

He gently pressed it, and the blade cut through Quincy's skin.

She did not bleed much since he avoided any arteries-but it hurt.

He could be precise, because he had been sneaking glances while Irene studied her medical books, which described at length about a human's vulnerable spots, where it hurt or had the least blood vessels. Although the neck was a vulnerable spot especially given the jugular, there was a spot one could reach. there, free from blood vessels but rife with nerves, making it exceedingly sensitive.

In fact, Quincy was already sweating buckets as her face turned pale. Her pupils dilated even as she felt death loomed, but her mind somehow remained clear.

Stan, who had been standing aside, appeared worried that Isaac would get butterfingers and slit her throat. Walking up, he said, “Leave it.” Isaac looked up at him, his expression inscrutable.

Stan kept trying. “She may be heinous, but she’s not worth getting your hands dirty over.”

However, Isaac suddenly plunged the switchblade into Quincy's shoulder even before he could finish.

As he pulled it out, he gave Stan a look. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Quincy was whimpering miserably, her facial features contorted from pain.

Stan could not help shuddering and sighing.

Still, despite his disgust and knowledge that Quincy deserved it, he pretended to look sympathetic. Picking up the white bottle, he said, “Oh, poor you. Don't worry-I'll disinfect you.”

Quincy certainly knew that he was not that kind-whatever was in that bottle was going to hurt her. She tried to struggle as hard as she could, but her restraints kept her in the chair.

The feeling of being at someone else's mercy was as grilling as it was horrifying.

She shuddered, her pupils darting about.

As Stan opened the bottle, he explained, “This is sulfuric acid. It would help close your wound.” “Umph-Umph-

Quincy tried to scream in fear, but her mouth was gag, keeping her voice muffled.

Stan was not feeling merciful, however-she had killed Isaac's parents just to get her hands on the Jeffersons’ fortune, and Isaac himself soon after he was bereaved. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She was heinous beyond words, and deserved anything they put her through.

"Just relax. I'll be done soon.”

Stan deliberately held the bottle in front of her and allowed a small drop to trickle out of the bottle onto her wound instead of pouring it right away.

Quincy's eyes bulged and widened, turning bloodshot instantly.

As Stan allowed more drops to trickle out of the bottle, there was a scent of something burning in the air.

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