Fangfang watched the entire movie but seemed to have absorbed nothing from it.
The film had minimal dialogue, relying on visual storytelling to convey the forbidden romance—far too sophisticated for a child like him.
Sheng Fang didn’t understand it. All he knew was that the potato chips were crispy, and before he knew it, the bag was empty. He’d have to ask Aunt Ping to restock tomorrow.
It had been days since he last heard Qing Zai tell him a story, and the little boy had grown clingier than usual. Now, he stood at the door of the children’s room, his small body leaning forward slightly, mimicking the posture of a waiter from TV dramas as he gestured grandly.
"After you—"
And just like that, Zhu Qing was ushered inside.
The study desk in the children’s room still bore the marks of Fangfang’s crayon drawings. The colorful streaks stubbornly clung to the pale wooden surface—Aunt Ping had tried everything to remove them, but nothing worked. Zhu Qing, however, thought it was fine. These traces felt like life as it should be. Since buying this house and moving in during the summer, more and more of their presence had seeped into its walls.
"Get into bed," Zhu Qing said. "Time to sleep."
To her surprise, Fangfang didn’t pester her for a story. The little one obediently burrowed under the covers, watching as Qing Zai sat at the desk, scribbling and sketching on paper.
As long as his niece was there with him, Sheng Fang felt warm, even under the blankets.
Grown-ups were so pitiful. After watching a movie, they still had to rack their brains over homework.
Being a kid was much better, he thought, lifting his feet high before letting them drop with a soft "thud."
Fangfang repeated the motion a few times, yawned, and gradually drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic scratching of Zhu Qing’s pen.
……
Over the past few months, Sheng Fang had unwittingly taught his niece how to savor life.
During breakfast, the little boy took his time, never rushing to leave the table as long as he still had milk in his mouth. It reminded Zhu Qing of their first meal together at the police station canteen—she’d been in a hurry to get back to work, while he swung his short legs and declared with utmost seriousness:
"Solve cases fast, eat slow."
Somewhere along the way, Zhu Qing had adopted his pace, even arriving at the station just on time these days.
In the meeting room, the familiar scrape of folding chairs filled the air.
Mo Zhenbang pored over case files in silence as colleagues trickled in with their own reports.
"Little Sun and I went to Funian Teahouse yesterday," Uncle Li flipped open his notebook. "The staff confirmed the person in the photo had been a regular recently."
He held up a picture of Zhou Yongsheng.
The police had no recent photos of the deceased—this was a decade-old image, digitally altered by the tech team to give him a shorter haircut.
"The staff described him as an ordinary middle-aged man in his forties, nothing remarkable. He always came alone, ordered shrimp rice rolls with extra peanut sauce and a glass of water."
Uncle Li continued, "Over ten years ago, Zhou Yongsheng mentioned in an interview that this was his favorite teahouse. The place still has that newspaper clipping framed on the wall. But the owner only realized yesterday that his regular customer was the ‘resurrected’ Zhou Yongsheng."
"He arrived around 3 p.m., well past lunch hour, so the staff remembered him clearly," Uncle Li added. "They all said he seemed in good spirits."
"The cinema ticket seller also confirmed that on the day of the incident, he entered smiling, saying he was looking forward to the film."
"The dish collector mentioned one detail—" Little Sun interjected, "After Zhou Yongsheng left, a man in a fisherman’s hat came in, specifically asked what he’d been eating, then left immediately."
He gestured, "The guy was short, kept his head bowed so low you couldn’t even guess his age."
The room fell silent for a beat.
Zeng Yongshan stood to report. "Yesterday, Liang Qikai and I—"
"Let me handle it," Liang Qikai cut in gently, motioning for her to sit and rest.
"Some of the old crew members from back then require appointments to meet now, while others can’t even recall events from ten years ago," he flipped through his notes. "But everyone knew Zhou Yongsheng was married. His affair with Gu Niman—one of the prop team caught them kissing once. Zhou Yongsheng threatened them into silence."
"Gu Niman was young and naive, her emotions written all over her face. The way she looked at him… there was no hiding it."
"So Gu Niman was blinded by love, while Zhou Yongsheng used ‘artistic enhancement’ as an excuse for the film, only to chicken out at the last moment during their suicide pact?"
Mo Zhenbang turned to Zhu Qing. "What about the deceased’s wife and son?"
"Jiang Xiaowei’s alibi checks out," Zhu Qing said.
Xu Jiale pulled up the household records. "But her son changed his surname a month ago—from Zhou Yifan to Jiang Yifan."
"If Zhou Yongsheng ‘died’ ten years ago, any resentment should’ve prompted that change sooner. The timing is suspicious."
"Maybe he encountered his ‘resurrected’ father," Zhu Qing speculated. "And realized even his death had been a lie?"
Mo Zhenbang mused, "Could Jiang Yifan have stood outside that teahouse, watching his ‘deceased’ father happily eating rice rolls?"
……
It wasn’t until they left the station that Zhu Qing noticed Zeng Yongshan’s unusual quietness.
"Rushed breakfast this morning, my stomach’s acting up again," Zeng Yongshan massaged her abdomen. "It’s fine, just need a moment."
She swallowed two pills, her complexion only improving once their official car parked outside the school.
"Liang Qikai this morning… fetching tea, buying medicine," her fingers traced the pill bottle. "He’s not usually like this—"
Zhu Qing supplied, "Overly attentive?"
"You could say that…" Zeng Yongshan muttered. "Strange. He seems to enjoy taking care of people."
Zhu Qing suddenly recalled the original storyline.
In the original plot, she met the male lead, was saved, healed… only to die later. The male and female leads had little connection until tragedy struck her family, forcing them together.
Was it because the current Zeng Yongshan was growing stronger, stalling this relationship’s progress?
"Men are inscrutable," Zeng Yongshan shook her head, pointing toward the administrative office. "Let’s meet the victim’s son first."
When Jiang Yifan was brought in, his school uniform hung loosely over bony shoulders.
He kept his head down until Zhu Qing mentioned Zhou Yongsheng.
"Have you seen the news about your father?"
The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes burning with a fury beyond his years. "Good riddance he’s dead."
Zeng Yongshan frowned involuntarily.
Love should be warm. But the so-called love between Zhou Yongsheng and Gu Niman had, over a decade, crushed a child beneath its weight.
If they were so desperately in love yet constrained by society, they could’ve divorced.
Why choose a double suicide? Their decision had hurt too many.
Zhu Qing left the administrative office, heading to the staff room to verify details with Jiang Yifan’s homeroom teacher.
The short figure identified by the Fu Nian Café staff clearly didn’t match the tall, lanky teenager before them. Yet Jiang Yifan was both tall and thin, his build indistinguishable from an adult’s. Moreover, verifying an alibi for a student should have been straightforward—his homeroom teacher had firmly stated that during the time of the incident, Jiang Yifan was sitting by the window in the last row of the classroom.
A rustling noise came from around the corner, where a group of boys crowded by the windowsill, deliberately raising their voices.
"Zhou Yifan’s getting arrested!"
"It’s Jiang Yifan..."
"Forgot. Just remember his dad, Zhou Yongsheng, who killed himself for love."
"The news said he murdered his mistress."
"The cops are here to take the murderer’s son away—"
The boy’s taunting voice dragged on, echoing through the empty hallway.
The Zhou Yongsheng case had caused an uproar, and in this semi-boarding school, it had become the hottest topic of gossip.
A teacher from the academic office was about to stand and shoo away the nosy students when Zhu Qing raised a hand to stop them.
Leaning against the doorframe, she spoke just loud enough to be heard: "Do you know spreading rumors can land you in jail?"
The laughter died instantly.
In the heavy silence that followed, footsteps sounded again as the academic office door closed.
Jiang Yifan slowly lifted his head.
"I’ve read those newspapers and magazines," the boy said, his expression tense. "The ones that said he killed his mistress."
"Why does everyone think Gu Niman was the victim?" He let out a cold laugh. "Is an 18-year-old really that clueless? I’m 16, and I understand everything."
"Whenever he was filming, he wouldn’t come home." Jiang Yifan continued, "Sometimes, late at night, my mom would call him... Did Gu Niman really never hear those calls? Was she really that innocent?"
The police didn’t answer his questions.
And it seemed he wasn’t expecting a response—just venting.
"Last month, he came to see me," Jiang Yifan’s voice dropped. "In the alley outside the school gate."
Zhu Qing and Zeng Yongshan exchanged a glance, waiting quietly for him to gather his thoughts.
"I didn’t tell my mom. She’s only just started getting better." Jiang Yifan said. "In the early years, I never saw her smile."
"Did you talk?"
"He tried to give me money... Said he’d explain everything to me someday. I didn’t take it."
Jiang Yifan smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "He said—‘I didn’t leave enough money for you and your mom back then.’"
"How many times did he come to see you?"
Jiang Yifan thought back.
The first time was a month ago. After all, it had been ten years since his supposed death—seeing his father suddenly reappear, he’d barely recognized him. How could Zhou Yongsheng toy with everyone like this? Jiang Yifan wanted nothing to do with him and begged his mother to let him change his surname, a child’s feeble act of defiance.
The second time was a week later.
The last time was three days before the incident.
"How did he seem?"
"Dressed well, pulling out thick wads of cash from his pocket—like he’d been living large all these years."
"He said he missed me." Jiang Yifan clenched his fists. "Turns out even directors can act. So well they start believing their own lies."
......
The trail on Gu Niman remained cold.
The Eclipse had been her debut film. Before that, she was just an ordinary student. Interviews with her former classmates yielded little more than sighs.
"Co-stars from the film all said they barely knew her."
"The registered addresses for her family were all changed. Apparently, her relatives were hounded so badly by the media they eventually went into hiding."
Zeng Yongshan paused. "Those paparazzi really crossed the line—zooming in on her parents’ and brother’s tear-streaked faces."
Zhu Qing asked, "What about the male lead?"
"He’s a red-hot star now, booked solid till next year." Zeng Yongshan scoffed. "His manager blocked us multiple times, claiming he’s on vacation abroad. Who knows if it’s true."
"Can’t blame them. When the film came out, no one mentioned him. Now that there’s a scandal, suddenly everyone’s interested. His team’s desperate to keep him from being tied to the ‘love suicide’ case."
At the police station, Zhu Qing stared at the wall covered in case files.
Severely nearsighted—without glasses, he shouldn’t have been able to walk straight. Dr. Cheng’s report showed Zhou Yongsheng hadn’t been wearing glasses regularly in recent years.
Glasses...
What did glasses have to do with this case?
Mo Zhenbang walked in with a stack of yellowed case files—finally retrieved from headquarters.
"After the ‘suicide,’ Zhou Yongsheng left his wife, Jiang Xiaowei, with nothing but their home and a six-figure sum in their account."
"Six figures?" Hao Zai looked up from his paperwork. "That’s all a famous director had saved up?"
"Six figures in 1985..." Uncle Li mused. "For someone of his stature, that’s surprisingly little."
"No property, no luxury cars, no watches..." Liang Qikai twirled his pen. "Where’d all the money go?"
......
In the kindergarten’s nap room, the tiny class was unusually quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting patterns on the floor.
"Today’s Friday," Teacher Ji whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. "If everyone naps properly, we’ll have a special tug-of-war game during afternoon playtime."
The children immediately pursed their lips, even their breathing softening.
Eager for the long-awaited game, every little one was on their best behavior—including Sheng Fang.
On the bunk beds, the children lay with their eyes closed, long lashes casting faint shadows on their cheeks.
Like perfect little angels.
Teacher Ji scanned the room, her lips curving into a smile.
This class could be deafeningly loud one moment and heart-meltingly sweet the next.
Her gaze swept over the sleeping faces before pausing at a corner.
"Sheng Fang," Teacher Ji tiptoed to his bed. "You have to actually sleep, not pretend."
Sheng Fang didn’t move, but beneath his tightly shut eyelids, his lashes fluttered incessantly.
"Grrr—grrr—" He suddenly let out exaggerated snoring sounds.
"That’s not how snoring sounds," Jin Bao sat up abruptly. "My dad snores like thunder."
Like a switch had been flipped, the nap room erupted.
One by one, the children shot up like springs.
"Like a train passing by!"
"Like a motorbike—vroom vroom!"
"No, like a vacuum cleaner—"
Teacher Ji stood frozen, torn between laughter and exasperation as her little angels revealed their Oscar-worthy acting skills.
"Teacher," Sheng Fang asked anxiously, "are we still having tug-of-war?"
The moment he spoke, the other children flopped back down and squeezed their eyes shut.
As if nothing had happened.
...
The so-called "special" tug-of-war competition turned out to be nothing more than two rows of children, faces flushed red, tugging clumsily at a rope in the activity area.
Sheng Fang was a little disappointed by the simplicity of the event, but when Zhu Qing came to pick him up in the afternoon, he was still waving his little hand excitedly.
"Our team won!"
Not only did he share the victory on the way, but even after arriving at the police station, Sheng Fang proudly puffed out his chest and told everyone he was the tug-of-war champion.
The investigation into the case continued, but the pace wasn’t urgent. Zhu Qing took breaks between interviews to fetch him, and by the time her shift ended, she closed the case file right on schedule.
Sheng Fang bounced around the police station as if it were his own home.
Once Qing Zai finished organizing the files, he climbed into the back seat of the car—they were now heading to another home: the rehabilitation center.
In the rehab room, Sheng Peirong was gripping a walker, taking slow, painstaking steps.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, but when she spotted the figures at the door, her eyes lit up.
These days, Sheng Peirong had heard many stories about their childhood.
Sheng Fang said he had spent most of his early years with Marysa, and he couldn’t remember how he had learned to walk.
Sheng Peirong wanted to know how Coco had taken her first steps.
Had anyone at the orphanage held her hand, taught her to walk, or celebrated her progress? She doubted it. Perhaps back then, Coco had pulled herself up against a wall, with no one even noticing her first unsteady steps.
But now, every step Sheng Peirong took was witnessed.
Her forehead glistened with sweat as she let go of the walker, seeing her daughter and little brother watching her intently from a short distance away.
She moved forward slowly—left leg first, then the right, each step feeling as if she were treading on cotton.
Yet she persisted, determined to reach them.
When they returned to her room after rehab, Fangfang trailed behind his eldest sister’s wheelchair like a little shadow.
He kept chattering, "We should celebrate with cake! Big Sis can walk now!"
Even if it was just one step, she had walked on her own.
"Fangfang just wants cake, doesn’t he?" Zhu Qing pinched his cheeks playfully.
The little one’s face scrunched up under her fingers.
He wriggled free, mumbling, "Strawberry flavor!"
The warm glow of the rehab center’s lights enveloped them.
Sheng Peirong watched the playful bickering between uncle and nephew, laughing again and again.
Then, Zhu Qing’s mobile phone rang.
"We’ve got new leads on the male lead from Eclipse," Mo Zhenbang said on the other end. "His flight lands at seven."
Having a mobile phone made communication easier, but it also meant Zhu Qing’s workload had increased.
In just a few days, Sheng Peirong had seen firsthand how busy Coco’s job was—no wonder Aunt Ping was always brewing her nourishing soups.
"Aunt Ping, can you come pick me up—" Before Zhu Qing could finish, she was interrupted.
Fangfang sprang up from the couch. "Big Sis, we gotta go!"
Sheng Peirong turned her wheelchair. "What’s happening?"
Sheng Fang was already at the door. He spun around and saluted like the cops on TV. "Officer on duty!"
Zhu Qing hurried after him.
Of course—this kid never missed a chance to join the action.
"Aunt Ping, don’t worry about picking me up!" Fangfang cupped his hands around his mouth like a tiny megaphone, shouting into the phone.
...
Zhu Qing held Sheng Fang’s hand as they weaved through the crowds at Kai Tak Airport.
The little one suddenly tugged at her sleeve, pointing discreetly. "Qing Zai, that guy in the baseball cap!"
Sheng Fang had studied the entertainment section of the newspaper carefully.
That was how big stars dressed.
Ten minutes later, in a secluded corner of the airport’s Peninsula Coffee, Lu Yongyan adjusted his cap again, pulling the brim lower.
He had already drunk a third of his coffee, wincing slightly at the bitterness.
Sheng Fang sat across from him, a notepad spread out in front of him, gripping a pencil solemnly.
His thoughtful niece had even prepared the stationery for him—just like a real investigator.
With a serious expression, he looked every bit the part of an assistant on duty.
This was just preliminary information gathering—Lu Yongyan wasn’t a suspect, and the questions didn’t involve critical evidence, so Zhu Qing could conduct the interview alone.
She opened her notepad. "Shall we begin?"
He nodded.
"That film took six months to shoot," Lu Yongyan said quietly, recalling the experience from a decade ago.
"She was only eighteen—a sensitive girl."
"Once, she cried quietly on set after a bad take. I wanted to comfort her, but Director Zhou stopped me."
"That was early in production. Even then, I could tell their relationship was… unusual."
"I almost lost myself in the role too," he admitted with a bitter smile. "But after the movie came out, no one remembered my name."
For years, his agent had forbidden him from mentioning Eclipse. Now, speaking to the police, he could finally be open.
The scenes he described grew clearer.
"Director Zhou treated her differently. For risky or nude scenes, he always used a double."
"But even then, he was meticulous—for a stunt where she jumped from a building, he insisted the double’s arm movements had to be flawless."
"And when it came to Gu Niman’s performance? He was relentless. A single look had to be reshot twenty times."
"The whole crew obeyed him. How could she have dared to resist?"
"Her acting was full of life—such rare talent. Just one film, and she left a mark." Lu Yongyan sighed. "Last year, at a fan meet, someone brought a Eclipse DVD and asked for my autograph. They said it was a shame Gu Niman couldn’t sign it too."
Lu Yongyan recalled that fan—during the premiere, as the male lead, he’d met the audience under the studio’s arrangements.
That same fan had stood in the crowd, crying.
"Ten years later, and they still remember."
"When they asked for my autograph, they’d blacked out Director Zhou’s name on the case."
"People say the film became a classic because of their ‘tragic love story.’ But I think it would’ve been a masterpiece regardless—with or without that gimmick." Lu Yongyan said. "That fan told me the only name that should’ve been erased was Zhou Yongsheng’s."
"Do you remember the fan’s name?"
"How could I? But..." He paused. "The meet-up required registration forms. The company might still have records."
...
At 9:15 PM, behind the one-way glass, Zhu Qing studied the man in the interrogation room.
This was Liu Wei—the first suspect brought in for Zhou Yongsheng’s murder.
The contact information he left at the fan club was accurate. When the police came knocking, he was in his apartment, its walls plastered with posters. Twenty-eight-year-old Liu Wei was the same age as Gu Niman. At the time of the movie’s premiere, he had only been eighteen—a fervent fan with an obsessive fixation on the deceased actress. Every inch of his home was covered in her film stills and promotional materials.
Though Gu Niman had only starred in one movie, he had collected countless versions of its posters. The yellowed pages of old magazines had been meticulously cut up, deliberately removing any trace of Zhou Yongsheng.
“Was that you outside Funian Café?”
“I knew he wasn’t dead. That day, I followed him…” he said. “I asked the staff what he ordered. Shrimp rice rolls with peanut sauce… That’s when I knew it was him.”
In the interrogation room, the officer quickly jotted down key details.
“Zhou Yongsheng didn’t deserve her,” Liu Wei chuckled. “That coward… Even his so-called ‘love suicide’ was a lie.”
“You happened to run into Zhou Yongsheng and recognized him.”
“Then what? Followed him to the theater and killed him?”
Mo Zhenbang slammed an old magazine onto the interrogation table.
Under the harsh fluorescent light, the deliberately spliced-together photos of Gu Niman and Zhou Yongsheng glared accusingly.
Liu Wei’s gaze remained fixed on the images.
“I lost him,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “After he left Funian Café, I couldn’t find him again.”
Mo Zhenbang crossed his arms, watching through the one-way glass.
“Even if he really did kill someone, he wouldn’t admit it. What are the odds of just bumping into Zhou Yongsheng on the street?” Xu Jiale muttered. “He’s clearly leading us in circles. Who knows how long this’ll drag on.”
“Keep digging for evidence,” Mo Zhenbang said.
The door to the observation room burst open with a bang—
“Sir Mo, we’ve got a lead. Someone reported seeing Zhou Yongsheng on Lamma Island about nine years ago.”
One by one, the officers filed out.
When Zhu Qing returned to her desk, she found the little one who had stubbornly refused to go home fast asleep at his post.
The tiny, dedicated officer had pouted so hard earlier—his lips practically drooping like an oil bottle—but now, Fangfang had finally succumbed to exhaustion. His short arms were folded into a makeshift pillow, his cheek squished adorably against them.
“Time to go home,” Zhu Qing whispered, gently patting his back.
Mo Zhenbang was assigning new tasks.
At the mention of tomorrow’s trip to Lamma Island, Sheng Fang drowsily lifted his head.
“I wanna go too…” Fangfang mumbled, his voice trailing off as sleep reclaimed him.
……
The next morning at Central Pier—
Fangfang, backpack and water bottle in tow, trailed behind his colleagues.
“Vacation time!”
This was Sheng Fang’s first trip to Lamma Island, and his wide-eyed excitement made it seem more like a school outing than an investigation.
The island was quiet, with few tourists and fishermen coming and going.
By the Yung Shue Wan Pier, Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale rented a pair of old-fashioned bicycles.
Zhu Qing’s bike had a small, railed seat attached to the back, perfect for Fangfang to climb into and settle comfortably.
The entire way, the little one clutched a photo of Zhou Yongsheng in his hands. Every time they stopped to ask questions, he would solemnly stretch out his tiny arm, holding the picture up to passersby.
“Have you seen this man?”
The tip had come from an islander named Li.
He said he’d only remembered after reading the news.
Following the address, Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale found Li.
“It was years ago. A man came to rent a place—right next door to me.”
“At the time, I thought he looked familiar. Joked that he resembled that dead director. Felt a bit rude afterward.”
“How did he react?” Zhu Qing pressed.
“He was polite, just smiled and said he had one of those common faces.” Li took the photo and studied it closely. “It was definitely him. I’ve got a sharp memory—no way I’d forget.”
With Li leading the way, they arrived at an old house.
In the courtyard, an elderly man with white hair sat sunning himself in a rattan chair.
“Uncle Dong!” Li called out. “Remember that guy who came to rent the place?”
The chair creaked as the hard-of-hearing old man turned slowly. “Huh?”
“The quiet, well-mannered one!” Li leaned in. “The one who paid the deposit!”
Back and forth they went, Uncle Dong’s booming voice making Fangfang cover his ears—poor kid was practically going deaf.
After a lengthy “translation” session, the police pieced together the clues.
A man had indeed come to rent the place, paid the deposit, and then vanished.
“If he wasn’t the director, why disappear after paying? Probably scared I’d recognize him,” Li said smugly.
Uncle Dong mentioned he still had the receipt.
The old man shuffled inside.
Meanwhile, Fangfang crouched by the bike, idly spinning the pedals.
With nothing better to do, the tiny officer wandered off, his short legs carrying him toward a nearby convenience store.
Eventually, Uncle Dong returned with a yellowed slip of paper.
“He said they’d move in within a week,” Uncle Dong announced loudly.
Zhu Qing caught the detail immediately. “They? Two people?”
“Man and woman?” Xu Jiale asked.
Uncle Dong recalled that Zhou Yongsheng had come alone to view the place but had vaguely mentioned another tenant—a woman.
“Who was she?”
“Starting a new life… Just a year later, and he’d already found someone else. Who did he think he was fooling?”
While the adults talked, Fangfang had successfully completed his shopping mission.
He twisted open a plastic bubble wand, dipped it in soapy water, and waved it gleefully.
Sunlight caught the floating bubbles.
Back on the road, the little one hummed a children’s song from his seat, swaying to the rhythm as the island breeze ruffled his hair.
Biking was so much fun—he’d already forgotten about Driver Cheng’s motorcycle.
Zhu Qing pedaled hard up narrow paths and steep slopes, while her tiny cheerleader whooped behind her.
“Wow—Qing Zai is the best bike rider in the whole world!”
“Bike Queen Qing, can you buy me a bicycle too?”
“No problem.”
Fangfang grinned. “When I get one, I’ll give you a ride!”
Squinting contentedly, he waved his new bubble wand.
As Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale rode side by side, their thoughts drifted back to the case.
“So it wasn’t a love suicide, but murder?” Xu Jiale mused. “Gu Niman dies, the director’s work becomes a classic. Fake his death, then run off with his real lover?”
Zhu Qing tightened her grip on the handlebars. “How many women did this guy have?”
“The money in the bank accounts makes sense now—he’d been moving funds for a while, planning his escape.”
“He and that woman were going to start fresh on Lamma Island?” Xu Jiale said. “So Gu Niman—young, naive—was just collateral in his scheme?”
Zhu Qing sifted through the clues, turning each detail over in her mind.
The mystery of a "lovers' suicide" from ten years ago intertwines with a murder case a decade later.
Zhou Yongsheng didn't suddenly become the man he is today—he was slowly pushed to this point by every choice and every lie from his past.
Zhu Qing dialed the police station and succinctly reported the latest developments.
After hanging up, she turned to Xu Jiale.
"We’ve tracked down Gu Niman’s family—her parents and younger brother..." She paused. "They’re all dead."
Xu Jiale froze, his voice rising sharply. "What?"
No one knew exactly what had happened, but both colleagues stood stunned.
Fangfang, acting like a little boss, commanded, "Back to the station."
