Arthur Shaw roared, "You can't talk about your mother like that!"
Marcus Shaw shot back, "Mother? When has she ever acted like one?"
The words struck like an arrow, making Helen Shaw stagger. Her pupils dilated instantly. Her nails clawed at the air as she shrieked in rebuttal: "That's right, I'm no proper mother! And yet I have the gall to keep such a wonderful son! My son is so good to me, so good it makes me sick with guilt, so guilty I can't sleep night after night. Let's talk about last month—I'd already agreed, I'd promised to host my old friends for dinner. And what do you do? One word about being busy with a case, and you stripped me of every ounce of face." She planted her hands on her hips and continued, "You think I wanted to throw that dinner? It's because they're always showing off in front of me—my daughter bought this, my son is so filial, took me out to eat, brought me gifts. I couldn't stand the shame, so I begged you nicely to help me host one in return. And you, big shot, do you even have parents or a wife in your eyes? Buried in cases all day, barely home a few times a month—and did it get you a promotion? No! One mistake and they knocked you down to the lowest rank, all those years wasted!"
Marcus Shaw's face turned iron-gray. His father, fearing he'd flip the table, quickly pulled his wife toward the door. "Stop talking."
But Helen Shaw wasn't finished. She complained that he was hurting her, then craned her neck and fired one last shot into the dining room: "Anyway, I can see that in this lifetime, there'll be no filial piety between us—we can't even manage a decent performance of it."
The old man pushed her out, and she slammed the door behind her.
Marcus Shaw's eyes bulged, his nostrils flaring. His father quickly sat beside him and urged, "Let her go. She's probably already committed to the community—people have to keep their word. We can't ruin their event."
Marcus Shaw's jaw muscles tightened. The old man realized he'd chosen the wrong words and shot his daughter-in-law an apologetic grimace.
When his son still didn't speak, Arthur Shaw tried again: "Your mother, she actually..."
Marcus Shaw clinked his bowl and said, "It'll get cold. Let's eat."
The old man swallowed his words, sighed, and muttered, "No matter what, we're still family."
Nora, standing frozen to the side, recovered enough to add her agreement. But Marcus Shaw slapped his thigh and snapped at her, "What do you know?" She lowered her head.
Arthur Shaw consoled his daughter-in-law with a look, then reached over to rub his son's leg. "That leg injury from last week—fully healed?"
Marcus Shaw picked up a chopstick-full of cold tossed greens, chewed, and said, "It's nothing. That little scratch doesn't count." Then he got up, rummaged a cup from the cabinet, filled it with cola, and set it at one corner of the table.
Looking at the five cups on the table, Arthur Shaw and Nora exchanged a glance, said nothing, and after a moment picked up their chopsticks.
After coaxing his father through the Dragon Boat Festival dinner, the young couple took a taxi home.
The whole ride was silent.
The night was like a pot of water just short of boiling—still on the surface, but quietly scalding every lonely heart.
Inside their apartment, after changing shoes, Marcus Shaw couldn't hold it in anymore: "That Jingyuetan discount text message—is it still on your phone?"
Nora stared blankly for a moment before understanding. She scrambled to search her phone, then after a while said meekly, "I deleted it."
Marcus Shaw's face went gray again. He shut himself in the small room and didn't say another word.
That night he couldn't sleep again. He wrestled with his thoughts for a long time, not knowing what hour he finally passed out.
In his dream, the two brothers played basketball under the sun. Daniel Shaw, face radiant, leapt up and said, "Brother, I'm going in for a layup."
---
Vince Conrad's name clearly embodied his parents' aspirations—a compensation for his actual appearance. Small eyes, flat nose, thin lips, all spaced far apart on a long face covered in acne. From a distance, the pimples looked like aircraft of various sizes scattered haphazardly across an aircraft carrier.
His first order of business upon returning was to call Marcus Shaw, saying he wanted to see his mother one last time. Marcus Shaw told him to come to the precinct for questioning, after which they'd accompany him to the funeral home to claim the body, sign the paperwork, and arrange cremation.
But whether from grief or from the inability to face the fact that his mother had been killed and then violated, he seemed to reconsider. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Maybe I won't go today after all. Whatever you need to know, come ask me here. Let's just catch that animal first."
Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn hurried over. As they got out of the car, they saw him standing downstairs, snarling at an old man playing chess: "You were always making eyes at my mom—don't think I don't know! Now that something's happened to her, you're the first person I thought of!"
The shout echoed through the buildings. The old man turned crimson with embarrassment, and despite his playing partner's attempts to restrain him, hurled chess pieces one by one. A "guard" piece struck Vince Conrad square on the forehead.
Marcus Shaw and Viktor Dunn rushed over to separate them, questioning the son on one side and interrogating the old man on the other. As it turned out, although the old man had been widowed for years and did harbor intentions of remarriage, on the day of the murder he'd been enjoying himself at his son-in-law's home—a complete misunderstanding.
Vince Conrad refused to believe it, insisting the old man's whole family was lying. Marcus Shaw had no choice but to load both disputants—four people cramming into the Beetle—and drive to the old man's son-in-law's complex to check the surveillance footage, which finally cleared the old man's name.
Now it was the old man's turn to be relentless. He slapped his hands together, jumped up, and cursed, "You throw a giant bucket of filth at me and think you can just walk away?"
Marcus Shaw spent ages talking him down, extinguishing the old man's and his daughter's outrage, before dragging Vince Conrad into the car and speeding off.
Throughout, Viktor Dunn had been uncharacteristically quiet. Marcus Shaw figured it was another failed blind date.
Marcus Shaw asked Vince Conrad, "Did your mother have enemies? Doesn't matter how long ago. Don't just think about neighbors—whatever comes to mind, say it. We might find a lead."
Vince Conrad picked at his face and thought for a long time. He said he rarely came home and didn't know much. But from what he knew of his mother, she occasionally ran her mouth and said some sharp things, with no real malice—not the type to make enemies.
Marcus Shaw followed up by asking what he was doing out of town. He said a buddy ran a game arcade in Ordos and had him helping mind the shop.
"Couldn't find work locally?"
Vince Conrad pinched his ear and said nothing for a long time.
When pressed about his work history, he stammered evasively and finally snapped, "Just been messing around, okay?"
Seeing they couldn't extract useful information, and fearing Vince Conrad's recklessness might cause more trouble, Marcus Shaw dropped him back at the old building and said, "We'll push the case forward—don't worry. Why don't you go to the police station first to cancel the household registration and handle your mother's funeral arrangements?"
Vince Conrad nodded, then led them upstairs for another look at the apartment, hoping to find something. A thorough search turned up no suspicious traces.
During the inspection, Viktor Dunn accidentally knocked over a photo frame. Vince Conrad scrambled to pick it up, rubbing it against his clothes over and over.
Marcus Shaw caught a glimpse—it was a photo of his mother in her younger days.
A moment later, Vince Conrad came over and offered them two cigarettes. Both declined. He lit one himself, and the room filled with smoke, the smell spiraling at the ceiling like an invisible net trapping everything dormant in the room, trapping the three dizzy men.
Marcus Shaw stood by the window for the breeze. The greasy sweat on him gradually faded.
Bored, his gaze swept the area below and suddenly caught a silver flash among the weeds on the roof of a nearby red-brick low building.
He stared harder, but clouds had drifted across the sun, and the glint vanished.
Marcus Shaw called Viktor Dunn and rushed downstairs. They borrowed a wooden ladder from someone, and Marcus Shaw climbed up to sift through the grass.
Someone below said, "That little shack used to be a gas canister transfer station. After they installed natural gas, it was abandoned. The lock's rusted shut—nobody manages it."
Before the words finished, Marcus Shaw called down, "Found it."
It was a bone-cleaver, about two hand-spans long, wide, with black tape wrapped around the wooden handle. Where the blade wasn't coated in dried black blood, it reflected silver light. The edge was honed to a mirror shine. Hefty but not clumsy in the hand—like a small iron-cast flag.
The moment he brought it down, the gathered crowd erupted, eyes wide, pressing closer.
Someone said, "Brutal. That thing could take a whole head off if you weren't careful."
Another said, "Clever too—tossing it onto a roof. Who'd think to look there?"
Viktor Dunn quickly produced an evidence bag, sealed the knife, and attached a label.
Just as they were about to wrap up and take it back for analysis, a young woman in a floral shirt emerged from Unit 4, carrying a plastic vegetable basket. Seeing the commotion, she stopped to gawk.
Marcus Shaw didn't recognize her—she must have been absent during yesterday's canvass. He jogged over and asked, "There's been a murder. We went door to door yesterday but you weren't in. Can you provide any leads?"
The woman frowned—only one eyebrow was properly drawn—and replied, "I heard about it, but I don't know her well. Just run into her sometimes buying groceries."
"The last time you saw her, did anything seem off?"
Her eyebrows pulled together. Something seemed to flicker behind her eyes, but she swallowed, then shook her head.
Marcus Shaw pressed, "Think harder. It's important for the investigation."
Her gaze bounced between the shoulders of the people nearby, and she mumbled, "My husband's hungry—he told me to hurry up and buy groceries."
Then she turned to leave.