The handwriting belonged to suspect B, and the tone matched as well, he thought. Why had this letter remained in the mailbox all this time? Did the two of them manage to meet, or not? They probably did meet; otherwise, suspect A would have come back to check the mailbox. But since the meeting place had changed and this letter was never retrieved, how did they manage to connect? Generally speaking, if one party in a correspondence never picks up the letter again, it means they no longer had the chance—they’re already dead. But no one in the training class had died. If you had to count, it would be William Williams, who jumped off a building and survived with injuries, but he clearly couldn’t be A, because not only did he not have the chance to pick up the last letter, he also didn’t have the chance to pick up any of the previous ones. This was a strange case, as odd as the correspondence between two murderers involving Susan Wright. But when it comes to solving cases, what you fear most is everything being normal and without suspicion; discovering something odd is actually good, because that’s a visible clue—once you break through, you can make great progress. Gabriel Adams had a hunch that these two oddities were connected.

The current question was: what was “Blue”?

“Blue” was a bar, right next to the medical school, with an industrial-style triple brass lamp above the entrance. Gabriel Adams walked in and saw a staircase leading down, only then realizing the bar was in the basement. Both sides of the staircase were covered with photos—celebrities and famous people posing with the bar owner. It seemed the bar was quite well-known. But that must have been in the past; the age of the photos and the years-old, unrenovated decor made that clear. Halfway down the stairs, Gabriel Adams vaguely heard music. It was just after nine in the evening—the bar’s night was just beginning.

A band was playing jazz, the drummer pounding away at the drum kit. In the flickering lights, Gabriel Adams saw men with similar expressions, each one looking like a hunter. The bar’s atmosphere was so ambiguous it made him uncomfortable.

He ordered a beer and a plate of peanuts, chatted with the bartenders one by one, and found that none of them had worked there for more than two years. Nine years was a long time for a bar. Gabriel Adams asked if the owner was in. The bartender said no—he often came by, but it was never certain. By the time he finished his beer and peanuts, it was almost ten, and the owner still hadn’t shown up. Maybe eleven, maybe twelve, the bartender said. When the drums started up again, Gabriel Adams decided to step outside for some air. As he passed, a long-haired woman sitting on a barstool flicked her cigarette ash at him, as if flirting, which sent a chill down his spine. The woman’s face was odd, and her supposedly seductive look almost made him want to vomit. As he walked up the stairs, he was still thinking about that face, that lingering feeling—had he seen her somewhere before?

Gabriel Adams slowed his pace, forcing himself to recall that face despite his discomfort, but couldn’t pull up any useful information from memory. Maybe he’d let her harass him again when he went back in and take another look?

Gabriel Adams was used to keeping to the right on stairs. When he’d come down earlier, he’d focused on one side’s photos; now he looked at the other. Most were of the bar owner—a slightly balding, chubby man—posing with celebrities, sometimes with a couple of staff squeezing in for the photo. In a central photo featuring a once-famous, now washed-up female singer, he spotted a face that seemed familiar. He stopped and stared at the photo, trying hard to remember—was it someone from the training class? But as he mentally compared each face, none matched. Faces of men and women flashed through his mind like a carousel, and suddenly he jumped in fright, a wave of discomfort raising goosebumps on his back. Maybe it was the way everything connects—he suddenly remembered who the young man in the waiter’s uniform in the photo was. He took out his camera, snapped a picture of the photo, and turned to head back down to the basement.

The person in the photo was William Williams, someone he’d originally thought had no direct connection to the case.

7

Fiona Bennett woke in the middle of the night from a dream, but couldn’t remember what it was. She opened her eyes and realized someone was beside her.

Frank Bishop had said he wouldn’t be coming back, so it was probably Susan Wright, Fiona Bennett thought. She hadn’t seen Susan Wright in a long time. Ever since Gabriel Adams started investigating, Susan Wright no longer followed her around like before. She turned her head; in the darkness, she couldn’t see the face on the pillow, but she could feel the dip in the mattress and smell a familiar scent. It was Frank Bishop; he’d come home early.

Fiona Bennett felt a bit more at ease and tried to fall back asleep, but couldn’t. She lay there with her eyes open, feeling a strange, floating wakefulness above her drowsiness, tugging at her, keeping her from returning to her dreams.

She thought of Gabriel Adams.

In two days, it would be time to meet. Just thinking about it made Fiona Bennett feel awkward—how should she greet him, what should she say first? She’d regretted it on the ride home that day. She understood that Gabriel Adams was right, even about the part concerning Frederick Bennett.

Would he really stop investigating? Probably not—he wasn’t that kind of person, otherwise there wouldn’t have been that text message. Of course, she’d already deleted the message, even though her husband never checked her phone. Fiona Bennett suddenly felt guilty. Her husband was sleeping right beside her, but she was thinking of another man. But that was because Gabriel Adams was helping her track down Susan Wright’s killer, nothing else. So why did she feel guilty? Fiona Bennett didn’t want to think any deeper.

Her face burned in the darkness, and the guilt only made Gabriel Adams’s image clearer. She seemed to see his wry smile again, and felt that there was comfort in that smile, putting her at ease.

After lying awake for a while, she saw a faint light from the air conditioner above her head—a small green indicator, glowing softly, casting a thin veil over the blanket. She didn’t need to look hard; the room’s furnishings slowly emerged in outline at the edge of her vision. She closed her eyes and heard Frank Bishop start to snore softly.

Tomorrow, I’ll call Gabriel Adams myself, she thought. After all, he was her good friend, after all, those were her classmates, after all, this should be her case.

Just as she was about to fall asleep, Fiona Bennett finally remembered her earlier dream.

She was back in the dorm, sleeping in her own bed. The bed curtain was half open, the drapes moving without wind. The bedboard above her creaked, and then Susan Wright’s feet dangled down, still wearing the white round-toed boots she often wore. The boots swung in front of her, and strangely, the toes were pointed toward her. She saw the scuffs on the toes, the fine scratches on the leather, and the zipper pull on the left boot was a strange color, replaced later. Fiona Bennett said to the boots, “So your family wasn’t well off after all.” Susan Wright’s head appeared beside the boots and said, “Shh, don’t tell anyone, we’re good friends.” Fiona Bennett was startled and said, “Aren’t you dead?” Suddenly, Susan Wright disappeared, and she heard loud footsteps—Gabriel Adams, in police uniform, walked to her bedside, snapped to attention, and saluted her, saying, “Citizen Gabriel Adams reporting to you.”

What bright eyes, Fiona Bennett thought.

Gabriel Adams lay in the bathtub, staring at the ceiling.

Sensation was returning, inch by inch. Gradually, he felt a chill.

It wasn’t the cold of the marble tub, but his body sinking, as if he were about to sink into cold, damp earth. From inside out, he was losing warmth.

There were so many things to think about, so many threads, he thought he’d already grasped the key point, and in a way, he had. But now, he was too tired, too tired to think about anything else. He could only stop his mind. When he stopped, his mind wasn’t blank—memories floated up on their own.

It was Fiona Bennett.

Not her face, not her figure, but clusters, like clouds, rising from deep inside him, floating in another space at about ceiling height, rolling and surging endlessly.

Those old days.

With pigtails, with braids, with short hair, with long hair, with bangs swept to one side...

What do you look like now?

Gabriel Adams stared and stared at Fiona Bennett. Deep down, he knew this was an illusion.

He wanted to see her. When would the next meeting be? The day after tomorrow?

He wanted to see her.

He wanted... to bless her. Gabriel Adams thought of all the gods and buddhas in the sky. I’ll bless you too, he thought at last.

A tear slowly seeped from the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek.

He wanted to say that word.

So many times, so many times, the words on the tip of his tongue.

He never said it—does he regret it? Not causing her trouble is good, too. In the end, we just weren’t meant to be.

Not saying it is good, too.

The next day, Fiona Bennett couldn’t reach Gabriel Adams. On the third day, Fiona Bennett thought, I’ll just go to the café. But that morning, she got a call from Frederick Bennett.

Gabriel Adams is dead. That was the first thing Frederick Bennett said to his daughter in years.

8

In Fushou Garden in the south of Qingpu City, there are evergreen trees, white doves strolling on the grass, and music drifting among the rows of headstones. November 9th was still late autumn, but for the person as thin as a piece of paper blown by the wind, it had always been winter.

Fiona Bennett wandered among the headstones, in no hurry to find Gabriel Adams’s grave, as if not standing there could prove that Gabriel Adams was still in this world. She hadn’t attended the farewell ceremony. Just like when the news of Susan Wright’s death came years ago, she fell ill in bed, muddled and delirious.

No matter how long you wander, there comes a time to stop. Fiona Bennett paused in front of a row of granite tombstones. The serial numbers showed that Gabriel Adams was among them.

She walked in.