Chapter 26: Come Solve the Case (5,000 Words)

The final bell rang. Zhang Shutong stretched, let out a long yawn, and walked out of the office.

The afternoon had slipped away just like that. Old Song had refrained from continuing his tantrum, hoping to keep the incident contained within the class, though that was unlikely. Despite his repeated insistence on silence and consideration for Gu Qiumian’s feelings, too many people had witnessed the scene, and other classes soon caught wind of it.

Miss Gu was quite the local celebrity. She and Lu Qinglian were arguably the two most scrutinized girls in their grade—or perhaps the entire school. In no time, all sorts of embellished versions of the story were flying around. During the break, Zhang even saw Gu’s little secretary leading a few girls over to check on her. He wondered why it had taken them so long to find out—hadn't they talked during lunch?

Old Song’s investigation dragged on. He had asked Zhang for photos and began trying to identify the culprit based on the handwriting. However, as an English teacher, the homeroom teacher lacked a sharp eye for Chinese characters. He eventually brought in the Chinese teacher, who took one look and shook his head—it was hopeless. Whether it was the "drop dead" scrawled on the A4 paper or the name on the bathroom stall, the samples were too brief. Furthermore, writing with a felt-tip marker felt different from using a ballpoint pen; judging by their usual homework, any assessment would be inaccurate.

They proceeded to ask who had been absent during the long break and even conducted individual interviews. It was because of this that both he and Qingyi had been summoned to the office to... "assist." Old Song seemed to trust their intellects—perhaps he knew Qingyi was a deduction fanatic, or perhaps rumors of the previous night’s details had reached his ears, leading him to believe he had a "Junior Detective League" at his disposal. He let them sit in on the questioning, though, in the end, nothing came of it.

For the whole afternoon, Zhang sat in a chair against the wall, pondering another question: Why smash Gu Qiumian’s block castle instead of something else? If it were truly a "death threat," why not write a more direct, vitriolic letter? If it were merely petty revenge, why not wreak havoc on her desk? Tearing up her backpack or textbooks would have been far more damaging than toppling a pile of bricks. Or was the perpetrator not from their class and thus unaware of where she sat? But if that were the case, how could they have targeted her castle? And as Qingyi had pointed out, if you wanted revenge, why write your name on a stall door—as if you were afraid no one would find out?

Everything seemed contradictory. And the most critical issue remained: even if they confirmed a "suspect," how could they force a confession without witnesses or surveillance?

Fortunately, Zhang hadn’t spent the afternoon in vain; he had found answers to most of his questions. Only one missing piece remained, and verifying his theory would have to wait until tomorrow—assuming everything went smoothly.

There was another, more daunting problem: even if he cracked the block incident, it didn’t mean the murder case would be solved. He had no idea how to investigate the commercial street demolition he’d heard about at the restaurant, or who the figure lurking in the Restricted Zone was.

He had tried his luck after leaving the rooftop at noon, obtaining the number for "Jianan Lake Fish House" and calling the proprietress. He hadn't asked earlier because Gu Qiumian’s table hadn't finished eating yet. Unfortunately, she recognized his voice. He shifted tactics, claiming he was asking on behalf of his family who wanted to rent a storefront, hoping to tease out some clues. But the woman was tight-lipped. Perhaps because Gu Qiumian had treated him to lunch, the proprietress assumed they were in cahoots and feared he was a spy. Such is the way of cause and effect.

In short, the three clues in his hands each seemed related, yet they refused to fuse into a single picture.

After school, he couldn't go play with his buddies. He had two things to do: first, grab a bite to eat; second, pay another visit to the Restricted Zone.

Zhang ate at a small steamed bun stand by the school gate. The buns were unique: the filling consisted of sugar-cured pork fat, crispy fried lard bits, and salted duck egg yolks. Zhang had never liked them, but he wasn't picky—he just needed to replenish his calories after last night's lesson.

The snow had mostly melted, leaving dirty piles heaped beside the street trees. The steamer on the cart puffed out wisps of white steam, and a stout woman was busy working. Zhang stopped his bike, just about to call out, when he bumped into an unexpected person.

Gu Qiumian was waiting by the stand, too. She was still wearing that iconic red scarf, her small face tucked into it, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat, silent. Zhang glanced at her and noticed the black Audi wasn't around.

He hadn't spoken to her all afternoon. Old Song had wanted her to sit in on the questioning, but she hadn't gone, offering the same excuse: she was already in a bad mood and didn't want to make it worse. It was hard to gauge her state of mind. If she were fine, she wouldn't have been so icy all day. She had seemed bright enough in the morning, but that lasted less than a single reading session before he had annoyed her, and then her castle was smashed—her mood was predictable. Yet, if she were in a bad mood, she still had time to take a group to the restaurant and now had the appetite to buy snacks at a roadside stall.

Perhaps the buns were truly delicious—small, six to a basket, a mix of salty and sweet. Unlike the shrimp cakes or other common local snacks, this was the only stall on the island that sold them, and the owner was an outsider, too. Regardless of how good others found them, Zhang had always disagreed. He found the filling strange; why make it both salty and sweet? It was like sweet versus salty tofu pudding—but what on earth was a mixture of both? If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would have thought these buns were a piece of "dark cuisine" cooked up in a fantasy. But they existed, right before him.

The woman was currently wrapping the buns, a large basin of filling at her side. Sweet lard and salty yolk were churned together, golden yellow mixed with translucent chunks of meat, all bundled into the dough. They were fundamentally contradictory.

Zhang felt uncomfortable just looking at it, but Gu Qiumian watched with intense focus. She didn't even notice him approach. He remembered someone saying at noon that she loved sweet-and-sour pork—another contradictory dish, in his opinion. Perhaps it was because Gu Qiumian herself was a contradictory girl—her brightness, her coldness, her nonchalance. If he hadn't seen it for himself, he never would have guessed these traits could coexist in one person. That was why he said he didn't understand her.

But understanding didn't stop him from greeting her. Gu Qiumian looked at him and gave a slight nod in response.

So aloof.

"Thanks for the thing at noon. I'll bring the money tomorrow."

"No need," Gu Qiumian stared at the oil pan, expressionless. "You helped me first. I don't like owing favors."

Her blank expression was different from Lu Qinglian’s. Lu was truly devoid of emotional fluctuation, whereas Gu was clearly wearing a mask of coldness. Was this *tsundere*? She had asked him that one question on the stairs, and he thought there would be no follow-up, yet she had remembered.

Zhang changed the subject. "Did you tell your dad about what happened?"

"No, he's away on business." Her tone turned even colder. Zhang sensed it wasn't directed at him; it seemed... the relationship between father and daughter wasn't as good as he’d imagined. But the key was:

"Are you all alone these past few days?"

She paused. "The nanny is here."

Zhang instinctively wanted to ask about her mother, but a new suspicion flickered in his heart. He simply said, "Be careful lately."

"That person won't dare do anything," Gu Qiumian said, enunciating every word. "And like I said, it’s just a toy."

"So that’s why you aren't angry?"

The buns were ready, placed in a plastic bag and handed to her. Gu had a unique way of eating; she didn't hold the bun with her hand. Instead, she pulled the handles of the plastic bag to the sides, squeezing the bun toward her mouth. She took a bite, got burned, and then held it in her palms, blowing on it before carefully tearing off a piece with her teeth.

"Of course I'm angry." It seemed the bun was really hot; she gasped while chewing, her coldness momentarily slipping. "But we spent the whole afternoon looking and didn't find anyone, did we?"

"Maybe tomorrow..."

"Since we can't find them," she said, either ignoring him or choosing to move on. She swallowed, her voice leveling out. "Better not to think about it. That way, I can still be happy."

The girl said this, but there was no happiness in her eyes. It reminded him of when he saw her earlier; her father had urged her to "be happy." Only now did he realize the weight of that remark. Most parents just told their kids to study hard and stay out of trouble. Who tells their child to be happy?

So, they moved on to lighter topics, like life and death, rather than her mood.

"Why haven't you gone back yet?" This was what concerned him most. She was always chauffeured around; the commute should be safe. Why was she here alone?

"I'm a little hungry," she said, not looking up.

But this proved she wasn't truly "aloof." In his experience, truly cold people would say they were buying something, waiting for someone, or tell you it was none of your business; they wouldn't explain their state. This was more like a shortened version of her usual speech.

She was still in a bad mood. But Zhang couldn't help it. There were countless people around the young miss, and they hadn't been able to make her smile all afternoon. Who was he to do better? He nodded, agreeing, "Well, being able to eat is a good thing."

Gu Qiumian’s movements stopped. She paused, mid-bite.

For the first time, she looked at him.

And rolled her eyes.

"How can you say such nonsense..." she muttered. "Did you come over just to annoy me?"

"I meant, you just had a big meal at noon and you're already hungry—doesn't that mean..."

"I didn't eat much," she frowned, displeased. "And what about you? Why aren't you sticking with your friends?"

"I have urgent business."

"What kind of business?"

"Classified."

"Pfft."

His own buns were ready. This snack was served as you ate; you didn't pack them, you just took one after another until you were ready to pay. Having learned from Gu, Zhang didn't rush to eat, just held it by his mouth, inhaling the fragrance of the fermented dough. He glanced at her. She was doing the same, staring at the bun or the road ahead, but her mouth never stopped moving.

"I thought you were in a terrible mood today."

"I am."

"But you just said you didn't care."

"There are degrees. Even if it's something unimportant, it's *my* thing. Whose property can be destroyed without them caring?"

"Why do you think that person targeted your castle?"

"They probably thought I cherished it. I specifically brought it along to keep on the bookshelf," she said dismissively. "Actually, I should have done something else with it."

"Watch out," Zhang warned. She hadn't been paying attention, and the bun was getting closer and closer to her scarf. She pulled back, tucked the scarf in, and curled her lip. "In short, the incident itself matters, but the blocks themselves don't. Does that make sense?"

"So you're in a middle state between bad and not-bad?" Zhang felt that women were truly mysterious creatures.

"No."

"Then what?"

"I'm in a bad mood."

Zhang was speechless. "But you're still eating the bun."

"Can't I be hungry?"

"What about the restaurant at noon?"

"Eating is eating, no matter where."

"I think I get it," Zhang nodded. So, she really didn't care that much.

"You don't get it at all," she said, unsatisfied. "You're just curious why I didn't cry or throw a fit."

"Uh..." It seemed she had hit the nail on the head. Zhang really couldn't figure it out. How could she be indifferent to unimportant things, yet take important things so seriously? He felt he was approaching the correct answer, but this wasn't a math problem with a clear process.

Gu Qiumian had no more to say. She didn't seem to want to explain further, or perhaps she felt that explaining would only let others gloat. She was a clever girl. He shut his mouth. The buns were cooling down; the winter wind was biting, and even the hottest food lost its warmth in seconds. The first bun in her hand was almost gone.

Actually, when she wasn't wearing a scowl, her voice was soft, and the sound she made while eating was the same. Zhang felt hungry, too. He took a bite of his bun, the soft crust breaking to reveal the filling—the sweet, sticky fat, the salty, fragrant yolk, the crispy lard... It was undeniably enticing, but still, no matter how he looked at it, it was a contradiction. This wasn't a math problem. People either loved it or hated it, but Zhang belonged to neither. He was indifferent.

Suddenly, he heard her say, "Because, if I do, I'll be defeated."

Gu Qiumian stated the answer quietly.

Zhang froze. He turned his head. A trace of grease remained on her lips, making them look even more vivid. She ate the same way she had been drinking yogurt at noon. Though she had been surrounded by a crowd then, she was alone now—or perhaps it was the other way around: when she was alone, it was no different than being at the center of a crowd.

Not long ago, he had encountered another girl eating alone. She had sat on the edge of the rooftop, eating cold, dry rice and wilted pickles, not saying whether she liked it or not, simply having grown used to it.

What did that mean for Gu Qiumian?

She stood on the red-brick pavement, gray-black mounds of snow at her feet, the withered branches of the street trees overhead. Her face peeked out from that red scarf, calm but never showing weakness.

She didn't not care; she was in a terrible mood. But even so, she wouldn't dwell on what was written on that A4 paper, wouldn't walk over to that block castle to see how her "princess" was faring, wouldn't skip her meals, wouldn't have red-rimmed eyes or throw a tantrum. Instead, she would go to the restaurant with a crowd, sit in the classroom under everyone's gaze all afternoon, and even now, bite into a half-salty, half-sweet bun. She never spoke of being "used to it," but instead, with absolute defiance, said: *Because, if I do, I'll be defeated.*

Zhang forgot to chew. His taste buds told him that, in this moment, the contradictory flavors had achieved a startling balance.

...

Gu Qiumian left after finishing one bun. Or rather, the person she was waiting for had finally arrived. Zhang watched her walk across the street and open the door of a red car. He remained silent for a long time, watching her get in and drive away.

...

December 6, 2012, Thursday, 6:23 PM. Four days until the murder.

Zhang rushed to the water area known as the "Restricted Zone." He found a hidden spot to sit, staring at the gloomy water until 8:00 PM. He came up empty-handed.

...

On his way back, he went to the commercial street again. Scattered shops glowed with warm yellow lights. He found a hat and scarf shop.

...

He reached home at 9:00 PM. The house was empty, just as usual. Conan was playing on the TV; he watched for a while, but realized it was no help for a real-world case. He needed to change his objective. The figure in the "Restricted Zone" might not be the killer.

...

Before falling asleep, he kept repeating a single line in his mind:

*"Because, if I do, I'll be defeated."*

...

The pressures of life vary from person to person. But there is no denying one thing:

He, too, had once been a person who was defeated.

...

December 7, 2012, Friday. The weather was nice. The campus was quiet. Three days until the murder.

...

10:00 AM, the bell rang on time. The activity for the long break was calisthenics—an exercise that would make you sweat slightly in the cold weather. Zhang got up with the crowd, the last one to leave the classroom, and lined up to go downstairs.

...

A little white remained on the playground. Sunlight hit the snow, reflecting a silver glow. The broadcast played music—was it "Colorful Sunshine"?

"The Ninth Set of Radio Calisthenics, beginning now—"

10:10 AM.

"Marching in place—"

The massive crowd moved in unison.

"Chest expansion, ready, start—"

Zhang, defying the group, stretched his arms, ignoring the astonished gazes around him as he pushed through the ranks. The only trouble was that this cursed exercise required stretching one's elbows, and he took several hits for it.

...

The boy in the middle of the fifth row from the back was named Du Kang; the boy at the edge of the seventh row was Qingyi. Zhang tapped them both on the shoulder.

The music suddenly became more intense.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—"

He had to raise his voice: "Come with me."

"What's wrong?"

"Leg lifting, ready, start—"

Zhang first glanced at the figure at the front of the line. Gu Qiumian was doing the exercises, looking the part, the pendant on her hair bouncing with her movements. That silver pendant seemed like it would never fall to the ground.

So, Zhang decided to be the young miss's lackey for once.

10:12 AM. He glanced at his screen and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

"Follow me back to catch the culprit who smashed the castle. The timing is perfect."