Catching Fire, Getting Burned
Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn took the bus back to the station.
"That female student—could she have killed Mr. Hollis? She knows the school layout, which would give her an advantage in carrying out the crime," Viktor Dunn said.
"I wondered that too at first, but didn't you hear what she said? The deceased was very strict with students. She seemed somewhat afraid of him—she probably wouldn't dare. Besides, she's so thin, her fingers look like they'd snap at a touch. Even if she could take away his glasses, she wouldn't have the strength to grab his head and slam it repeatedly into a cabinet until he died."
"Maybe she had an accomplice? The two of them working together—she gathers evidence, sends the threats, cuts the surveillance, and the man in black does the killing. Otherwise, why wouldn't she tell us right away when we asked?"
Marcus Shaw thought for a moment, then said, "Not likely either. She's only a teenager. If she had evidence, she could tell her parents or report it directly to the school. There's no need to commit murder over it and ruin her own future. As for hesitating to speak up at first—it's because she feels what the killer did was righteous, that they eliminated a bad person for her. So even though she witnessed something, she had a slight impulse to protect them. If they were truly accomplices, she'd have kept her mouth shut tight—she'd never give up her partner even under torture."
The two fell silent.
After a while, Marcus Shaw said, "In the hallway case from last week, we estimated the killer's height at over one-seventy-five. And the person the girl saw was 'not extremely tall, but somewhat tall'—one-seventy-five is basically consistent. Both are stocky, strong, meticulous, with similar operational methods. I suspect it's the same person."
Viktor Dunn listened, then covered his mouth in imitation of Marcus Shaw's thinking pose. Finally, he nodded. "The similarities are striking. But—a retired widowed housewife and a vocational school math teacher? These two people don't seem to know each other at all. How could they both have offended the same killer badly enough to be murdered?"
"That's what I can't figure out either. Let's go back and map out their social networks more carefully. Maybe there really is some connection we've missed."
When they reached the station entrance, the older woman's street food stall was still set up, and Viktor Dunn wanted grilled cold noodles.
As they walked over, the woman was reading a book. Hearing Viktor Dunn call out, she set it aside and placed it on the corner of her cart.
It was a joke book with a garish cover.
Marcus Shaw recalled that he'd noticed it several times before, inadvertently. During the lulls between customers, she'd be absorbed in a book, handling it with great care—always wiping the grease from her hands before picking it up. And she read with total focus, as if the rest of the world didn't exist.
Marcus Shaw asked, "You like reading, ma'am?"
The woman smiled, almost embarrassed. "I was an orphan growing up—no adults to raise me. Everything I learned, I taught myself. I managed to pick up enough characters to read, but the deep stuff is beyond me. I can only manage books like this."
Marcus Shaw thought of himself and felt a sudden kinship with her. His nose prickled.
She added, "Sometimes life feels bitter, you know? So I find ways to make myself laugh more."
Marcus Shaw nodded.
When the grilled noodles were done, Viktor Dunn pulled out his wallet—only four hundred-yuan bills, no small change.
"Can't break these—never mind."
"No, I insist." He reached for his phone to scan the payment code, but it had shut down from a dead battery.
Marcus Shaw fished in his pocket—his own small change was gone too. He held up his phone. "I'll scan and pay."
The woman tried to decline—next time, next time—but seeing neither man would hear of it, she bent down to find her QR code. She rummaged around without success until she finally patted her apron, pulled the code from the front pocket, slapped her thigh, and laughed: "Hah, look at my terrible memory."
Marcus Shaw scanned and paid. Viktor Dunn suddenly said, "Hey ma'am, we were just chatting and I didn't notice—did you sneak another egg onto mine again?"
The woman gave a sheepish grin. The sunlight fell across her broad face, her cheeks like two patches of highland red. Marcus Shaw tried to pay her for the extra egg, but she tucked the QR code away like a child and absolutely refused.
Viktor Dunn said, "Ma'am, if you do business like this, you'll never make any money."
She smiled again and said, "It's just me. Enough to spend is enough. What's the point of making lots of money?"
The two men looked at each other. Viktor Dunn said, "The lady's got it all figured out."
They headed into the station, exchanging greetings with colleagues heading out for lunch. Just as they passed the reception window, Marcus Shaw's phone rang—it was Nora. He stepped away from Viktor Dunn to take the call.
Her voice was, as always, very soft. Marcus Shaw said, "Can you speak up?" She repeated herself: she'd left a piano score at home and needed it this afternoon, but she was swamped with work and couldn't get away. Could he fetch it for her?
Marcus Shaw checked the screen—he had enough time during the lunch break. He said curtly, "Fine, I got it." As soon as he hung up, Viktor Dunn sidled over and asked what was up. Marcus Shaw said it was nothing—just some personal business he needed to attend to.
Viktor Dunn gave him a sly, knowing look.
Marcus Shaw took a taxi home. He lifted the piano lid in the living room—no score. He rummaged around—still nothing. Taking a breath, he slowly pushed open the master bedroom door.
A wave of shampoo fragrance washed over him, like stumbling into a garden.
Since Danny's accident, Marcus Shaw hadn't set foot in this room. Everything inside was both familiar and strange. With each step, his heart raced faster, and before long, he felt an inexplicable sense of trespassing.
The piano score lay on the pale pink bedsheet, two pillows lying side by side. He suddenly felt the bed was so wide, so vast, so ostentatious, and yet so silent—beckoning to him and resisting him all at once.
He didn't have time to dwell on it—afraid of making her late. He grabbed the score and fled downstairs to catch a cab.
The art training school was housed in a large, mixed-use office building. When he arrived downstairs, Marcus Shaw was about to enter when he noticed a parked car that looked familiar. He turned to check the license plate—it was Captain Reed's car.
His mind started churning. It was the lunch break, sure, but why would the boss be here? On what business? He didn't have time to puzzle it out, though—he hurried upstairs.
The elevator wouldn't come, so Marcus Shaw abandoned the wait and took the stairs, bounding up two at a time. Reaching Nora's floor, he stepped out of the stairwell—then quickly pulled back.
In the distance, Nora was talking with someone, smiling. Marcus Shaw peeked around the corner and saw that the person was his own boss.
It felt like a duck feather stuck in his chest—tickling, trembling, and the trembling carried a faint ache.
He stood with a dark expression, watching from the shadows. He couldn't hear what they were saying—he could only guess wildly from their expressions. They both seemed happy. Nora would occasionally lower her face shyly. Marcus Shaw thought: How can my eyesight be this good from so far away?
Just then, Captain Reed waved and turned away, leaving via the far staircase. Nora stood at the stairwell entrance, watching him for a long time.
When Marcus Shaw handed the piano score to Nora, she kept her head slightly lowered and thanked him in a very small voice—as if she'd made some mistake but didn't dare hope for forgiveness.
"Next time, keep track of your own things."
Nora clutched the score to her chest and nodded twice quickly. They stood in silence for a moment, then Nora asked timidly, "Have you had lunch?"
"I have. Ate very well. Ate a lot, too." With that, before she could respond, he turned and strode away, leaving Nora standing alone.
Leaving the art school, Marcus Shaw stood on the roadside trying to hail a cab, planning to go back to the station and eat instant noodles. The scene he'd just witnessed was seared into his brain—he couldn't scrub it away.
After waiting two or three minutes without success, he pulled out his phone. There was still time, he noticed. He remembered that his car had been sent in for a tire change two days ago, along with a routine service—it should be ready by now. He changed his mind and decided to pick it up.
His stomach felt oddly full—he wasn't hungry at all.
Marcus Shaw was a regular at that auto repair shop. Once they'd gotten familiar, the owner had started calling him "little brother." But the owner wasn't in today. Instead, he was greeted by Finn Carter—the young thief he'd once arrested.
Finn Carter was changing a tire on a Land Rover when he saw Marcus Shaw arrive. He quickly set down the wrench, straightened his clothes, rubbed his hands, and shuffled over with a sheepish grin, but didn't say anything—just stood there, looking like he'd done something wrong again.
Marcus Shaw asked, "Learning the trade well?"
Finn Carter gave a "heh-heh" smile and scratched his head with his dirty hand.
Marcus Shaw patted his shoulder. "I'm here to pick up my car. Go back to what you were doing."
But he still stood there, looking conflicted.
Marcus Shaw added, "Really, go on."
Only then did he crouch back down and continue loosening the wheel with his wrench.
Marcus Shaw stood and watched, then said, "Good technique."
Finn Carter looked up with a grin.
Marcus Shaw retrieved his car and decided to take the highway back to the station.
No sooner had his backside touched the seat than his mind started churning again. Captain Reed had clearly said this morning that he was going to the sub-bureau for a meeting. But how did that meeting end up at Nora's place?
His mind was like a pot of rice being washed—the water never ran clear.
He recalled Nora's recent behavior. The last time they'd seen each other was two days ago—he'd been dropping off his father, his car had been spiked, and he'd been in a foul mood, prowling around that narrow alley for ages without finding a suitably positioned surveillance camera.
Without realizing it, night had fallen, like a giant pot lid clamping down and smothering the sunset glow.
A barbecue restaurant by the road had set out tables and chairs. Men and women, old and young, were drinking and skewering meat, chatting and laughing—it was lively. Marcus Shaw suddenly felt a pang of loneliness. He sat down at a table and ordered over twenty lamb skewers and a bottle of ice-cold beer, letting himself dissolve into the bustle.
At the next table, a man was mixing Hongbaolai peanut drink into Snow Beer and offering it to a boy, saying he was old enough to start cultivating his drinking. Marcus Shaw took a sip of his own beer and thought: That's a terrible mix—how could it taste good? He tilted his head back. The moon was frozen in the distant eastern sky, utterly indifferent to the revelry below.
By the time he drifted home, it was past ten at night. The apartment was dark and silent. He assumed she was asleep. He was changing his shoes in the dark when the master bedroom light suddenly clicked on, brightness leaking through the door frame.
She emerged in a floral nightgown, drifted into the living room, and flipped on the overhead light, expressionless. He changed shoes under her gaze, and when he finished, he started toward his small room—then heard two sharp clinks. He turned to see her lifting the overturned plate on the dining table. Beneath it was a large bowl of noodles topped with a fried egg, with a sausage on the side.
She didn't say a word—just slipped back into the master bedroom. The door remained open, ajar. He stood and looked at it for a moment. In the end, he didn't eat the noodles. He went back to his own room.
In the blink of an eye, the car was already on the highway.
Marcus Shaw couldn't help wondering—had he gone too far that day? He'd finally come home and immediately holed up in his small room, making accusations about her to his father. He'd gone out instead of staying home, eating barbecue and drinking beer until stuffed, then ignoring the bowl of noodles she'd made. In daily life, he maintained his coldness—never giving her a pleasant look, never willing to exchange more than a few perfunctory words. Anyone would feel resentful. If she'd had a worse temper, she'd have blown up at him long ago—how could she still be so quiet?
He thought further: She was human too, with her own inner needs. And she was a woman. Being given the cold shoulder for so long—was her heart hollow too? And if it was hollow, she'd need to fill it. If he didn't fill it, would she find someone else who would?
The thought made his heart tighten inexplicably. He weighed it back and forth and decided that while he had no romantic feelings for her, he couldn't override his ingrained traditional streak. He was merely entertaining reasonable suspicions and feeling simple embarrassment—not quite anger, not quite jealousy.
With these thoughts, his stomach felt even fuller. He decided to skip dinner and breakfast the next morning. His body, meanwhile, seemed to have found new energy—his back straightened, and he pressed the accelerator to the floor. The car shot forward like a shell leaving the barrel, and he felt himself launched along with it.
Just then, the oil pressure warning light flicked on. His focus snapped back instantly. He lifted off the gas and went for the brake and clutch.
But the car wouldn't obey—it surged forward like a mad thing.
Marcus Shaw gripped the steering wheel with one hand while flicking on the hazard lights with the other. The car ahead swerved out of the way; the one behind fell far back.
He stomped the brake pedal several times, using every ounce of strength. The car finally began to slow—screeching as it drifted into the oncoming lane and slammed diagonally into the guardrail. It lurched once and stalled, narrowly missing a pickup truck.