Violet Bennett stared blankly at Gabriel Adams, feeling like she might cry again. If only she had told him back then, how wonderful it would have been—she thought this once more. She really had been too young at the time.

Gabriel Adams smiled at her. “What are you so moved about? Don’t be fooled by how nice I make it sound. You know how boring it’s been for me as a household registration officer these past years? Let me be upfront: I can only investigate in my spare time, so progress won’t be fast. Don’t get anxious. How about this—we meet once a week, and I’ll update you on what I find.”

Fiona Bennett had nothing more to say, so she just nodded.

Next, Gabriel Adams asked her in detail about many things from back then, jotting them down in a small notebook he carried, until it grew dark outside and he finally said goodbye.

As he was leaving, already outside the shop, Gabriel Adams said to Fiona Bennett, “Actually, I’ve often visited your home over the years.” Fiona Bennett responded with a quiet “mm.” Gabriel Adams continued, “Your father’s gotten old—his back is hunched now.” Fiona Bennett said nothing. Finally, Gabriel Adams said, “Actually, on your wedding day, I went with your dad. He didn’t go into the hotel, though—he just stood across the street and watched.” Fiona Bennett was dazed for a moment, then let out a sigh.

2

When Fiona Bennett woke up, she saw Susan Wright beside her, watching her intently, her long black hair spilling across the gap between the two pillows.

“Are you going to the library?” Fiona Bennett asked.

Oh, right, you’re already dead.

Can you tell me who killed you? Oh, right, you don’t know either.

The long hair gradually withered.

Suddenly, Fiona Bennett couldn’t see Susan Wright’s face anymore. It was as if she wasn’t looking at her at all, but had buried her head in the pillow.

She slowly lifted her face.

Fiona Bennett woke up.

There was no one beside her. Fiona Bennett stared at the pillow—there was no imprint on it either. So Frank Bishop hadn’t come home last night. She picked up her phone from the bedside table; there was an unread text message.

“I won’t be home tonight.”

No reason given, but it was surely something to do with a patient.

Over the years, Frank Bishop had advanced quickly. Three years ago, he became an attending physician; last month, he was promoted to associate chief physician, and he’s already a young member of the Shanghai Cardiothoracic Surgery Academic Committee. He’s published three papers in top international medical journals—he’s clearly a rising star in medicine. The price is that, on average, he can’t come home two nights a week.

Two years ago, Frank Bishop took out a loan to buy this apartment. From the furniture to the décor, every item was handpicked by Fiona Bennett. Yet every time she opened her eyes, Fiona Bennett still felt like a stranger. The home felt unfamiliar, the world felt unfamiliar—everything seemed separated from her by a thin membrane, and Frank Bishop was no exception. It was as if, ever since she fell out with her father and left home, she no longer had a home in this world. She had become a tourist, a stranger. Sometimes, when she saw Susan Wright, in that split second before fear surged up, she would feel at ease, feel that everything was within reach. This sense of intimacy with death often left her shaken afterward. She knew her mind wasn’t right—just as Gabriel Adams said yesterday, if the root of the illness isn’t removed, if the source isn’t clear, her problems would only get worse, and one day she wouldn’t be able to hide them anymore.

Thinking back to her reunion with Gabriel Adams yesterday, she actually felt a sense of familiarity, warmth, and reassurance. Maybe it was just because she had so few friends, Fiona Bennett thought. Then, on second thought, she realized she’d simply been too naïve before—someone like Gabriel Adams was at least a very suitable friend. Can men and women really be true friends? Fiona Bennett remembered what Gabriel Adams said when he appeared yesterday: someone with the same name as her, so he came to see her, to see if she was doing well. Her heart fluttered, as if an electric current had passed through her. Then, she pushed all those feelings down. Frank Bishop is a good husband, Fiona Bennett told herself. Everyone says so—he has a bright future.

But when it comes to a bright future, it’s not just Frank Bishop.

All nine people who joined Henry Mitchell were workaholics who gave their all. Three had already been promoted to associate chief, and the rest were close behind. They were only thirty years old—the speed was incredible, but it was all earned through hard work, with real achievements and solid theory. Now, the other doctors at Henry Mitchell had started calling these nine people the “Sponsored Training Department.”

If Susan Wright hadn’t died, there would have been ten in the Sponsored Training Department. No, including Fiona Bennett, eleven. Of course, Susan Wright would have been the most outstanding of them all.

Can Gabriel Adams find that person?

Suddenly, Fiona Bennett realized she was thinking about Susan Wright. In all these years, this was the first time. She had seen Susan Wright in her dreams again and again, and sometimes in sudden, shallow dreams—or, to be honest, in mild hallucinations—but Susan Wright was always running away, always telling herself it was all over, nothing could be undone, don’t think about that name anymore.

But just now, she thought of Susan Wright, and it felt completely natural.

It was Gabriel Adams who gave her the courage to face her again.

Fiona Bennett remembered the agreement to meet Gabriel Adams every week. With his guidance, she would have to return to nine years ago, back to that seven-person dorm room, back to that face that was first delicate, then swollen.

Countless memories surged up at that moment. In the past few years, Susan Wright had been Fiona Bennett’s nightmare, but now, she had returned to being the person she was at the beginning—the gentle, intelligent woman whom Fiona Bennett confided in and admired.

Because of her own mistakes, she had turned her into a hideous demon in her memories.

Fiona Bennett stood barefoot at the window for a long time, finally letting out a long sigh. Then she slipped on her slippers, turned, and walked out of the bedroom to the coffee table in the living room.

On the coffee table was a tray of candies and two magazines. Fiona Bennett set them on the floor and lifted the blue-patterned coarse cloth underneath. It was an old, large leather suitcase, decades old, which Fiona Bennett had found in a vintage furniture shop and used as a coffee table in the living room.

Fiona Bennett knelt on one knee, pulled out the brass latch, flipped open the lock, held both ends of the lid, and lifted it up.

Inside were things she didn’t use but couldn’t bear to throw away. Pushing aside stuffed animals, an old camera, and some cassette tapes, Fiona Bennett pulled out a long, reddish-brown leather case from the bottom. She put the suitcase back as a coffee table, sat on the sofa, and held the leather case in front of her.

It no longer looked as it did in her memory—the red was faded, the leather had lost its shine. She wondered if the flute inside had aged just like the case. Maybe, it had died along with its owner long ago, its spirit gone.

Before she died, Susan Wright left word to give this flute to her. When Susan Wright’s father came to the dorm to collect her belongings, he handed the flute to her, but all these years, Fiona Bennett had always kept it at the bottom of the suitcase, never even opening the case. Only today did she finally have the courage to face it.

Fiona Bennett stroked it for a while, then opened the case and took out the flute.

The flute had not aged—its color was still greenish-yellow, as if it were yesterday.

Yesterday seemed within reach.

Fiona Bennett brought the flute to her lips, randomly covering two holes with her fingers, took a breath, and blew. Susan Wright had once taught Fiona Bennett to play, but Fiona Bennett never had enough breath—her face would turn red and her ears hot, but she couldn’t play a tune. Thinking about it, it felt like it was happening right in front of her.

No sound came out. Fiona Bennett tried again and realized it wasn’t a problem with her breath—the flute was blocked. She held it upright and looked into the hollow bamboo tube. Inside, it was stuffed with tightly rolled paper.

Her heart began to race.

Was this a letter from Susan Wright to her?

If not for fear, she would have discovered it nine years ago.

Fiona Bennett went to the kitchen, grabbed a chopstick, and poked the paper out.

The paper was a bit brittle. She slowly unrolled it.

She read them one by one. Her hands and feet turned cold, her blood froze.

They were indeed letters, but not written to her. Nor were they written by Susan Wright.

They were correspondence between two murderers!

3

You must be very surprised—I am too. I’m glad to be able to correspond with you. It took a lot of courage for me, so please don’t have any unnecessary worries. When I realized you existed, I was especially happy. I guess we’re kindred spirits, even though what we’re doing is dangerous and illegal. But no matter what, she deserves retribution—otherwise, it’s just too unfair!

This is how I introduce myself. Susan Wright is in the hospital now. You must think it was an accident, since you didn’t do anything this time. Now I’m telling you—it wasn’t an accident, it was my doing. Of course, this was just a warning. I didn’t expect to do her any real harm—she always manages to be saved and comes back to us, and it won’t even take long. But this is just the beginning. I’ve joined in, and there’s a long road ahead. I plan to take it slow, just like you. As for my real identity, I don’t think you’ll try to find out, just as I won’t recklessly ask your name. After all, we see each other every day, greet each other, and we’re all members of this Sponsored Training Program.

……

You don’t need to know my methods. Your approach this time was stupid and pointless—don’t get yourself caught and drag me down with you. Medical students can’t come up with a better plan? If your skills are that bad, you’ll be the next one to be weeded out!

Susan Wright doesn’t have much time left. With or without you, it’s the same.

Thank you for replying to me. I’m very happy—truly.