“Muscles.” The Vault, seeing there was no way to avoid it, suddenly found it hard to swallow her food. “Eight-pack abs.”

“Yeah, academically there’s no such thing as eight-pack abs.” Julian Grant said, “It was some adult who said they’d take responsibility, it wasn’t me forcing them, right?”

The Vault struggled, “It’s already this day and age…”

“That’s why so many people in modern society are irresponsible. The reason our family has developed to where it is today is because of tradition.” Julian Grant cut her off sharply, insisting, “My parents’ love was also especially traditional. Our whole family is especially traditional!”

The Vault felt a wave of melancholy. Sure enough, there really aren’t any pure, honest people in this world—when someone decides to be shameless, there’s no bottom to it.

Julian Grant glanced at her face, then suddenly started to feign concern: “There’s no meat at all? There are lots of canned goods in the little storeroom’s fridge. All kinds—seafood, beef, you name it.”

The Vault shook her head. “I don’t want any.” She couldn’t afford to want it. She was afraid.

“Really don’t want any?”

The Vault hesitated again. “…Let’s talk about it later?”

Seeing her drooping her head like that, Julian Grant felt both helpless and amused. He stopped bantering with her and said loudly, “Alright, if you don’t want it, forget it. But don’t eat here either—take your bowl out. Now my whole room smells like grease.”

Cold and heartless.

After being messed with by The Vault, he even forgot what he’d come to say to her. She stood up, holding her noodle bowl in both hands, and turned toward the door in a daze.

“There’s still another bowl of noodles.”

“That’s mine.” Julian Grant glared at her. “Don’t even think about it.”

The Vault: “……” How can someone be so unreasonable?

·

After being startled by Julian Grant, The Vault spent the whole night dreaming of bizarre things, with handsome men stepping out of baths appearing frequently, leaving her feeling drained.

On the other side, Henry Harris dreamed of a night-long cops-and-robbers chase, and woke up the next morning feeling refreshed and full of energy.

The psychologist Julian Grant had invited arrived early. Henry Harris exchanged numbers with her, put on the jacket she’d worn the night before, and left in a hurry.

She called Chief Campbell to report the situation. Chief Campbell responded calmly, telling her to handle things steadily and not to be impatient. The more critical the moment, the less they could afford to act rashly. If they could identify a suspect and had evidence for an open investigation, he would assign her more personnel.

With this assurance, Henry Harris felt even more fired up. After returning to the office, she had someone make a copy of the note from last night, then contacted a professor in the city who was familiar with fountain pen handwriting, and brought the document to visit him.

The professor, having received a call from the police early in the morning, thought it must be something urgent and arrived at the school early to wait. But when he heard the only evidence was a card with a short poem, he felt uncertain.

Afraid Henry Harris would get her hopes up too high, he gave her a heads-up as soon as they met.

“This might not be something I can identify. There are still a lot of people who study penmanship. If the person used one of the common writing styles and wrote carelessly, I might not recognize it. If you want to investigate, it could be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Henry Harris was a bit nervous too, but she believed that, given the arrogance of the mastermind, he wouldn’t display a skill he’d only half-learned to his target. Since he wrote it, it must be something he was confident in.

Henry Harris took the copy out of the bag and handed it over with both hands. “Please take a look.”

The professor put on his glasses and held the paper close to his face to examine it. Because he was so focused, the muscles around his eyes tightened, forming deep furrows above his brow.

“It does look familiar. This person must have practiced for a long time—there aren’t many people at this level.” The professor was pleased with this realization. Adjusting his glasses, he said, “Wait a moment, I can’t quite remember.”

Henry Harris sat down across from him. “Take your time.”

The professor got up and rummaged through the cabinet behind him, then pulled out two thick albums from the bottom.

The albums were filled with all sorts of photo records—some of calligraphy, some of penmanship, and some of different ink paintings. It was his personal habit: whenever he saw a piece he liked, he’d photograph it for inspiration.

He couldn’t remember exactly where the thing he was looking for was, so he had to start from the beginning. Henry Harris waited quietly by his side.

Time ticked by, and Henry Harris felt a bead of cold sweat form on her forehead.

They had been investigating this case for a long time, but because there was no evidence, it had always been conducted in secret. To verify this flimsy suspicion, they had almost completely checked the backgrounds of Harry Forrest, Xavier Daniels, and others, including everyone they could possibly have contact with.

Yet, the results were as fruitless as searching for flowers in the fog. After so many failures, even Henry Harris had started to doubt herself—was all of this just her imagination?

This was the first time they had gotten so close to their target.

If Rachel Thornton hadn’t left that piece of paper on a whim, they might still be running around in circles.

Faced with this only breakthrough, it was impossible for Henry Harris not to be nervous.

Finally, the person across from her, who had been buried in research, made a move.

Henry Harris quickly stood up and walked behind him.

The professor pressed the paper with one hand and gestured with the other: “Look, isn’t it very similar? This ‘了’ character, and this ‘巷’ character—the way they’re written is quite unique, clearly showing personal habits. Most people either flick outward or hook back, but here it’s hooked upward. The habits for these two characters are the same as in this photo, and the other characters match as well.”

Henry Harris wasn’t a professional, but from her layperson’s perspective, the handwriting in the two photos looked almost identical.

“I need more content to make a proper identification.” The professor took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “The style can also change depending on the period. It’s best if you can get me notes from the same time frame.”

Henry Harris pointed at the picture and asked, “May I ask whose handwriting this is?”

The professor replied, “Oh, a social psychology professor from Dalton University. We attended an academic seminar together not long ago.”

He picked up his phone, swiped a few times, found a photo, enlarged it, and handed it over.

“See, that’s him. Leonard Campbell, Professor Li. He’s considered a leading figure in the field—you should know him.”

Henry Harris saw the person in the photo and, confirming it wasn’t just someone with the same name, her fingers trembled slightly.

Of course she knew him—she had seen this person’s name in the files several times.

“Oh, right.”

The professor gestured, took back his phone, opened a search app, and typed in the modern poem from the copy.

A row of red-highlighted results popped up, showing that it had appeared online before.

This modern poem was selected from a certain poetry collection, and the author listed was Leonard Campbell.

“I knew it.” The professor, having figured it out, felt completely at ease and smiled. “I thought it looked familiar, like I’d seen it somewhere before. This poetry collection was published by people from our association—everyone contributed a few poems. There are two of mine at the end, too. Thinking about it now, it’s a bit embarrassing.”

Henry Harris: “When was it published?”

“A long time ago.” The professor closed the page with a smile. “Back then I still had the energy for these things—wanted to publish a book as a keepsake. Must have been over ten years ago. Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing.” Henry Harris put her things away, snapped a photo of the album on the table, and maintained her composure as she said, “Thank you for your help. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Alright.”

Chapter 105 Update

Leonard Campbell…

When The Vault handed over the criminal profile, Henry Harris had suspected this person several times—not because of his character, but because of his status and influence.

She had a strong premonition that the mastermind should be someone with this kind of powerful influence, at least someone with enough connections. But she quickly ruled Leonard Campbell out, because the Professor Li she knew had no motive for any crime.

Henry Harris flipped through Leonard Campbell’s file, feeling at a complete loss. She had read this brief file countless times, even the page corners were curled from her handling, but it still hadn’t given her the answers she wanted.

Henry Harris took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, a rare look of confusion on her face.

“Knock knock knock.”

Henry Harris composed herself and said directly, “Come in.”

A young man in police uniform strode in, holding a stack of documents. After closing the door, he asked, “Captain Harris, are you really going to investigate Leonard Campbell?”

Henry Harris glanced at him and scolded, “Fix your uniform—what do you look like?”

The young man, having been called out, quickly put down what he was holding, pulled out his turned-in collar, and smoothed out his wrinkled shirt.

He was so busy he wished he had eight hands—who had time to care about appearances?

While straightening his clothes, the young man said, “But Leonard Campbell is a famous psychology professor in the field. The students he’s taught could surround our whole department. Is it really necessary?”