That desk board was also hung on the wall. Gabriel Adams found this "mailbox" and took part of it home for safekeeping. Fiona Bennett believed there must be a reason for this. When looking at the wooden board, the densely packed, neatly arranged strange symbols on it were mesmerizing. On closer inspection, these carvings were completely different from the usual graffiti found on desks—perhaps it was this very difference that aroused Gabriel Adams's suspicion. Were the symbols on the "mailbox" related to the whole case? But these symbols were never mentioned in the murderer's correspondence.

The desk board was a new development for Gabriel Adams, as were the letters tucked inside "Criminal Psychological Profiling." If he hadn't been killed, he would have told Fiona Bennett everything about this in their next meeting, including his analysis of the case based on these findings. But now, Fiona Bennett could only rely on her own guesses for everything. Where did the letter come from? The handwriting was clearly that of perpetrator B; this was a new letter not included in the ones hidden in Susan Wright's flute. Judging by the content, it should be placed after the last meeting letter. Where did Gabriel Adams get this letter? Could it have come from the "mailbox" as well? Based on the current situation, this seems the most logical inference. Why wasn't this letter taken away back then? Did the two murderers ever actually meet?

There were too many questions, and not just about this newly surfaced letter. Whenever the curtains were drawn and the incandescent lamp was switched on, the bright white light would shine on every sheet of paper and the desk board, making those carefully disguised Chinese characters and strange symbols seem to dance, weaving into indecipherable patterns, forming a great net that enveloped Fiona Bennett. To unravel and make sense of all this was no easy task. Without Gabriel Adams's analysis, no matter how complicated or difficult, Fiona Bennett could only rely on herself. For more than a week at the beginning, Fiona Bennett set all this aside and buried herself in Gabriel Adams's stack of criminal investigation books. She skipped the definitions and outlines, focusing only on the sections about reasoning, deduction, and judgment, the analysis of various criminal motives and criminal personalities, and the process of solving all related cases. Since these were Gabriel Adams's textbooks, in many places he had written his own study notes.

These study notes required a lot of effort to distinguish, as they were hidden among a jumble of other messy handwritten content and were not very conspicuous. Besides the study notes, there were other things written in the margins of the textbooks.

They were one story after another, fragmentary scenes with no beginning or end. The wild imaginings of an adolescent, Fiona Bennett thought at first. But as she read through them one by one, she caught sight of her own name in the corners of some pages—those were the neatly written characters “Fiona Bennett.” Nowhere else in the entire book did Gabriel Adams write any other words with such care and force, not even his own name. “Fiona Bennett” “Fiona Bennett” “Fiona Bennett” “Fiona Bennett”—these names were scattered throughout so many books, filling every moment of Gabriel Adams's police academy years. She knew Gabriel Adams liked her, but she had never known it was with such care and intensity. At least, she herself had never liked anyone in this way.

And so, she began to understand those stories.

A strong wind, fine rain, midday. The distant sky was stained by smoke, its color changed, making it impossible to tell which was the smoke of war and which was the smoke from burning houses in the city. Beyond the slope ahead, the familiar small town was right there. The city had fallen—was she still there?

Dirty blood seeped into the seams of my armor, my whole body sticky, and the thin horse beneath me was already panting heavily. I patted its neck, squeezed its belly, and, dragging my spear, crossed the slope. The city gates had always been in disrepair, and now, before my eyes, the north gate had completely collapsed, with several fires burning inside the city. I knew things were bad—the marauding soldiers had swept through here. I dared not imagine what might have happened to her, and urged my horse into the city. After dispatching a few wandering soldiers, I saw no living souls in the city. I vaguely heard shouts from afar, and, passing through the city, saw that just outside the south gate, at the ten-mile pavilion, a dozen local braves were desperately holding off over a hundred fierce, fleeing soldiers, buying time for the dark mass of refugees behind them. I spotted her at once—her pale yellow dress seemed untouched by dust, her long hair coiled at the back of her head, her face clear and calm. I rode straight in, thrusting my spear into the fray, the spearhead blossoming, the butt flicking away a feeble stray arrow. When I broke through the enemy ranks and circled back, the enemy soldiers had scattered again. I swept down seven or eight more with my spear, and hearing cheers behind me, I put away my weapon and rode to her side.

"I'll take you away."

"Who are you?" She lifted her face slightly, her features still familiar.

I froze, thinking perhaps my face was covered in blood, and wiped it with my hand, only to smear it even more. Now my face was a complete mess.

But she had already recognized me. She said, so it was you. There was a hint of joy, but also a strange calm.

"I'll take you away," I said again, bending down to scoop her up and set her behind me on the saddle. The thin horse shuddered, as if unable to bear the weight. I gently tapped its flank, and we sped off.

She didn't struggle, but wrapped her arms around my waist and asked, "But where can we go?"

"Somewhere safe."

"You fought your way here alone. Wasn't it hard?" she asked.

"Not at all." After fighting through the enemy lines and riding a hundred and eighty miles to get here, both man and horse exhausted, saying it wasn't hard was a lie.

"Were you hurt?" she asked again.

"It's all the enemy's blood on me," I said, trying to sound bold, but after a few laughs my voice gave out. After taking down nearly a hundred and eighty men, not being injured would be a miracle. At this point, I had a dozen wounds, and just now, bending down to lift her onto the horse, the pain was intense.

She was very smart, so she didn't ask further.

The horse jolted, and she held me tighter. I had never imagined being held by her like this. Even though I wore light armor, and there was a wound on my left side where her arm encircled me, my chest still burned with excitement, as if a ball of boiling blood was on fire.

"Why don't you ask if I'm alone now?" she suddenly said.

My heart tightened. "So, are you alone now? You must be, or you wouldn't have come with me like this."

"I haven't really come with you," she said.

I was stunned.

"Can you protect me?" After a moment of silence, she asked.

"Of course I can protect you."

"And is that enough?" she asked.

I was stunned again.

"Actually, you can't protect me. In these troubled times, who can you really protect? You're on the battlefield, skilled at killing, but you could be killed at any moment yourself. How can you protect me?"

I was at a loss for words.

"Thank you for today."

"No need to thank me." My heart had already gone cold.

I left her where she could see the city gates—this was the rear, and as long as our front lines held, it would be safe. I couldn't leave the front for long, so I had to say goodbye here.

"Who knows when we'll meet again," I said at parting.

"If fate allows," she replied.

"Would you want to see me again?" I asked.

"I would," she said, "if you don't die, and if I don't marry."

The sun was setting in the west, its light brilliant. In that moment, the whole world, to me, was bright.

Note: This passage was written in the blank space between Chapter 8, "The Initiation Stage of Criminal Investigation," Section 2, "Basic Investigation and Verification of Information," and Section 2, "Comprehensive Use of Investigative Measures to Collect Criminal Evidence," in "Criminal Investigation."

Fiona Bennett read to the end of this story, to its moment of brightness, and smiled faintly, then immediately grew somber again. Then she turned back to the beginning of Section 2 and began reading the textbook content.

When it came to solving cases and facing complex clues, Fiona Bennett was at a complete loss and had always relied entirely on Gabriel Adams. But when it came to studying, that was Fiona Bennett's strength. And in her student days, she was never just a bookworm who could only memorize by rote. After these days of poring over the books, she couldn't say she had any amazing insights into the case, but at least her mind was no longer a muddle.

There were nine full years between Susan Wright's death and Gabriel Adams's death, from the old millennium to the new. Many clues in the Susan Wright case had undoubtedly been buried by time and were hard to unearth. But it had only been a little over half a month since Gabriel Adams's death. If you asked which case was easier to solve, it was obviously the latter. If the murderer of Gabriel Adams was found, it would basically mean the murderer of Susan Wright was found as well. And for Fiona Bennett now, what mattered even more was avenging Gabriel Adams.