When he received the second letter, Marcus Shaw had tried to track down the sender.
The postmarks showed the letters were mailed from within the city, but the postmarks changed every time—clearly the sender was crafty, using a different mailbox each time.
Even employing every investigative technique at his disposal, Marcus Shaw couldn't find a single useful lead.
Now, the letter had come again.
Like an obsessive invitation, utterly indifferent to the recipient's state of mind, automatically launching yet another guessing game...
A pickup truck sped past outside, horn blaring, and a startled stray cat shrieked.
The sound was like a blade, stabbing straight into Marcus Shaw's heart, jolted him into a cold sweat.
Heart racing, head splitting, Marcus Shaw fished a small white bottle from his backpack, shook out four tiny white pills, and swallowed them dry.
He'd just put the bottle away when he thought better of it, pulled it back out, and took two more.
Shaking the bottle afterward, he noticed his own medication was running low too. He stepped out to make a call and schedule a refill.
---
At 7:15, Marcus Shaw woke up on time.
The moment he pried his eyes open, he sensed something off about the room.
That familiar scent of shampoo.
He sat up and found the big red stuffed doll on his desk had toppled over, and the door was left slightly ajar. Irritated, he marched over and slammed it shut.
He changed into a purple basketball jersey and sat at his desk, opening a coloring book.
His hand moved across the page, but his mind was elsewhere.
He suddenly recalled the night before last—she'd sneaked in while he was dead drunk, climbed into bed, and fumbled around in his haze. It wasn't until yesterday morning that he'd noticed something amiss. When he'd stepped into the living room, she'd darted into the kitchen, pretending to be busy. As he put on his shoes, he caught a glimpse—her face was flushed red. He'd felt disgusted, and left the apartment slamming the security door so hard the whole building seemed to shake.
Her mother-in-law must have put her up to it—deluding herself that a child could tie him down. She didn't understand that a broken home only brought disaster to a child.
Agitated, the tip of his colored pencil snapped. Ten-plus minutes of careful work, ruined—he hadn't found any peace at all.
After stewing in silence, Marcus Shaw finally emerged from his room. The moment he opened the door, he saw Nora rummaging in the refrigerator, her waist-length braid trailing behind her, the red hair tie at its end flicking like a snake's tongue.
At the sound of the door, she turned to glance at him, quickly grabbed something, shut the fridge, and faced him—like a student who'd forgotten to do her homework.
Marcus Shaw frowned and headed for the door.
Fearing she'd miss her chance, she blurted in a strained voice: "Food. I made food."
Marcus Shaw shoved his feet into his shoes and gave the dining table a cold glance. A bowl of noodles with a fried egg on top.
Shoes on, Marcus Shaw fixed her with a stare and said in a low voice: "I told you before—don't come into my room. Don't kid yourself that what you did went unnoticed."
Her face drained of color, waxen. The mole near her left eye sat like a lonely island, floating on her face. Looking down, she noticed she was clutching a can of dark beer and shoved it randomly back into the fridge.
By the time she turned around, Marcus Shaw was gone. The noodles sat untouched.
---
Marcus Shaw drove his Beetle to work.
The car had drawn no shortage of mockery—from relatives to colleagues, everyone said it looked too small, too cutesy, more suited for a woman. Sometimes, when he drove it to crime scenes, witnesses gave him odd looks as he climbed out.
But he didn't care, and never bothered to argue. He liked it—that was enough. He hadn't asked anyone to be his chauffeur.
Two red lights later, he pulled into the station parking lot at 7:56. Not bad—not late.
Marcus Shaw hadn't slept well again last night and wanted to buy coffee.
As he got out, he spotted a small crowd gathered across the street. He wandered over and found the grilled noodle vendor—her spatulas and scrapers hard at work, open for business.
Before Marcus Shaw could say anything, she called out "Officer!" Nearly every customer turned to look. Somewhat embarrassed, Marcus Shaw said, "Just call me Shaw."
He stood off to the side, watching her cook—the crackle and pop, aromas bursting up.
Mesmerized, he watched as the vendor finished serving most of the customers. The last was a schoolgirl with a backpack. She looked at her takeout container and said, "I didn't order sausage."
The vendor replied, "I know. It's on the house."
The girl hesitated, then said thanks and left.
Marcus Shaw snapped out of it. The vendor was smiling at him. "I made an extra portion. Why don't you try some, Officer Shaw?"
"No thanks. I've eaten."
"Really?"
"Really... Are you setting up here from now on?"
Her smile vanished instantly. She clutched her apron with both hands and said, "After yesterday, thanks to you and Officer Gao. I thought about it all night... I feel safer setting up near the station."
She looked up at Marcus Shaw, as if seeking permission from the owner of the space.
"That was just a one-time incident. Don't worry about it."
The vendor nodded.
In the silence, Marcus Shaw shifted gears: "Though if you do want to set up here, as long as the city inspectors don't chase you off, we have no objection. It's not a main road anyway."
She quickly added, "I keep it clean, pick up all my own garbage. I only set up for a short while each day. Don't worry."
As they talked, Marcus Shaw's phone rang. It was Vik, panting on the other end: "Brother, get over here! Elmwood Road!"
"A case?"
"Yeah! The scene... it's absolutely insane!"
---
2. Red in the Black
It was an L-shaped building, six stories tall, at least a decade or two old. Two long rectangular buildings flanked it from front and back along a small road, sandwiching it in between. The short arm of the L wasn't very long—just two building entrances—but it curled like a hand that couldn't stretch out, forced into a fist, enclosing a narrow strip of open ground.
The incident occurred at the junction of the L—a cramped doorway marking Entrance 5. The orientation was poor to begin with, and the L-arm blocked what little light there was, leaving the hallway pitch-black year-round.
Marcus Shaw arrived chewing bubblegum. He hadn't yet reached the entrance when the air's staleness mixed with the scent of blood hit the gum he'd just blown into a bubble. Nauseated, he spit it into the garbage pile by the door, startling up a swarm of flies.
A crowd had gathered outside, murmuring and gossiping. Marcus Shaw pushed through, asking them to cooperate and clear the area.
Nobody moved.
Viktor Dunn was fanning himself with a folder and hurried over. "Marcus, glad you're here. The body's in the hallway. People inside want to go out, people outside want to come in—I can barely hold the scene."
Marcus Shaw peered inside—pitch dark. Someone was shining a flashlight outward, punching a hole in the darkness, while simultaneously arguing that they needed to go out and buy breakfast.
This set off two elderly men standing outside, who yelled that they'd been waiting forever and wanted to go upstairs.
Marcus Shaw tried to reason with them, but it was no use. Their emotions escalated—voices climbing over each other, drowning out even Viktor Dunn. One of the old men outside jabbed his cane at the ground, looking ready to force his way through.
Marcus Shaw asked about the deceased, but each person said they barely knew her—had never exchanged more than a few words.
That surprised Marcus Shaw.
One white-haired old man was the one who'd reported the crime. He only knew the woman's surname was Xue, and that she lived on the fourth floor. When pressed for more, he grew impatient, smacking his cane, saying don't ask him, he didn't know.
With no other option, Marcus Shaw pulled out several shoe covers from his backpack, asked them to put them on, and let them pass along the wall.
Once that was settled, Marcus Shaw focused on the scene itself. Phone flashlight on, he crept inside on tiptoe.
The victim was a woman, lying face-up, head pointing inward. She appeared to be around fifty, not tall, average build. She wore an old men's brown shirt on top and loose purplish-gray wide-leg pants on the bottom, which had been pulled down along with red underwear to below her knees, exposing her genitals.
The fatal wound was at the back of the head. Blood had sprayed onto the wooden door and threshold, then curved like calligraphy to splash onto the storage closet door beside the stairs, painting a lock red, before running out of momentum and sliding down the grimy wall to pool on the floor—no further spreading.
Marcus Shaw handed his phone to Viktor Dunn for light, pulled on gloves, and bent down to examine the body closely.
Viktor Dunn shone the light on the victim's left hand. "What's that?"
Marcus Shaw looked—a short piece of burnt wire. He picked it up and recognized it as a spent sparkler firework.
Everyone had played with them as kids. Every year when the firecracker stalls came out, Daniel Shaw would drag Marcus Shaw out of bed at dawn, frantic to buy fireworks. Magic rockets, bottle rockets, ground spinners, aerial spinners—they'd buy everything, lugging home two stuffed plastic bags, spending every last coin of their pocket money.
After Daniel Shaw died, Marcus Shaw never set off another firework.
Viktor Dunn couldn't help asking, "What—the victim was setting off fireworks in the hallway before she was killed?"
Marcus Shaw didn't answer. He examined it for a long time, imagining its golden sparks bursting in the dark, before saying, "Bag it for now. Did you call the forensic doctor?"