She put on a stern face, knocked on the already-open door, and flashed her badge. She said: If you don't mind, I'm coming in.
Fats was still rattled, shrinking toward Lauren Vance on the sofa.
Lauren Vance made herself at home, tearing open a packet of tea from the coffee table and brewing a pot. She poured a cup for each of us.
I said: How did you find me?
Lauren Vance said: You spent the whole day interrogating people. Looked like you were trying to steal my job, so I followed to check on you.
I said: Very funny. A minute ago I was on the verge of committing intentional assault.
Lauren Vance said: You seem plenty lucid to me right now.
Fats looked from me to her and said: You two know each other? Then I'm not needed here, can I go?
Lauren Vance said: Sit down. I need to talk to you.
Fats sat back down, obediently.
Lauren Vance sipped her tea and spoke as though to herself: I heard everything you just discussed. It's about what I expected—ill-timed jokes, careless remarks. They pushed the victim to despair, and she took her own life.
Fats started blubbering again: I didn't mean to—I never thought Serena was that fragile...
Lauren Vance cut him off: Who told you to make that joke?
Fats said: It was my own big mouth. All my fault...
Lauren Vance said: Let me rephrase. Did anyone guide you?
Fats looked bewildered. Lauren Vance noticed my temper flaring again and signaled me to calm down.
Lauren Vance said to me: You visited her best friend today, her supervisor, and two others. I followed behind and asked them too, and I found something odd. I'm not sure if you noticed.
She said: All of them had seen a psychiatrist named Dr. Warren Ashmore. When they recalled what happened, they all felt that what they said to Serena was connected to his counseling sessions.
Fats said, startled: Dr. Ashmore? I saw him too. He said he had a psychological weight-loss treatment, so I went to see him. Didn't seem to work though.
Lauren Vance guided him: Be more specific.
Fats frowned, thinking hard, and said: He went on about The Interpretation of Dreams, said you burn fat while dreaming. But I listened for a whole afternoon and realized that in the end, everything got explained away as being about sex...
He slapped his thigh and said: Sex. No wonder that day, when I saw you leaving with her best friend, I immediately jumped to that conclusion.
Lauren Vance said: It seems we need to pay this doctor a visit.
Fats said loudly: That's right—Serena was killed by The Interpretation of Dreams. The author should be held responsible!
Lauren Vance covered her face and said: Fats, just... stay here.
---
Lauren and I stood together in the elevator.
She scrolled through her social media feed for a bit. I'd calmed down considerably, but the silence felt awkward, so I made small talk: Detective Lauren, isn't today your day off?
She glanced at me and said: You're the reason it isn't. I finally had a day off, and then I see you storming out of your apartment looking ready to murder someone.
I said: What a coincidence. You just happened to be there?
She said: I came over because I needed to talk to you.
She told me she'd been investigating the jumping suicides for a while. The leads were the same as what I'd found today—before they died, the victims had all suffered verbal provocation to some degree.
She seemed curious and asked: How did you determine it was those five people?
I said: I saw them.
She said: Liar. You weren't even there when they were talking to Serena.
I said: I'm not lying.
She said: Fine, don't tell me then.
She continued, saying that based on the current leads, Dr. Ashmore's psychological counseling appeared to be the root cause of the suicides. She would take me to meet him. She'd planned to go alone, but after seeing my ready-to-kill demeanor, she decided it was safer to bring me along.
I said: Thank you.
She reminded me: Ian Ashford, you need to be clear about this. I'm bringing you to investigate, not to confront. We have suspicions, but no evidence yet. Don't go in thinking you're handing down a verdict.
She thought for a moment, then added: Honestly, my superiors don't even think this is worth investigating. They just think I'm being paranoid.
I said: She wasn't your wife. Of course you don't care.
She said: The victims were all women. Don't forget, I'm a woman too.
She pointed at her head and said: I don't believe women in their twenties would kill themselves over a few careless words. Women aren't that fragile.
---
Lauren Vance and I stood in front of the orphanage. I couldn't help but give a bitter laugh.
I said: So this was your real reason for coming to find me.
She had brought me to Serena's orphanage.
The former Director Ashmore—now known as Dr. Warren Ashmore—was in the courtyard, playing with the children. In the spring sunlight, he wore a neat suit. He looked about thirty, though I was told he was already past forty.
He clapped his hands, asked the caretaker to take the children back to the classroom, and walked toward us alone.
He shook my hand and said: Serena was a kind child. She must be happy in heaven.
Warm breath, sorrowful tone—as though he'd rehearsed it many times. A faint smell of tobacco lingered on him, the kind that comes from years of smoking, the scent buried deep in his skin and stubble.
I shook his hand without expression and said nothing. I was paying attention to something else—his hands.
Serena had once mentioned his hands to me.
I had asked her who the director of the orphanage was and suggested we visit sometime.
Serena was beside me, playing with the cat.
She thought for a moment and said: Big hands, strong arms too.
I said: How did he treat you?
Serena was quiet for a while, then smiled and said: That was a long time ago. I've forgotten.
Standing in the orphanage, I held the director's hand and realized his hands were actually about the same size as mine. His arms were even on the slender side.
Then it struck me—over a decade ago, Serena was just a child. To a child, any adult's hand would feel overpowering.
Lauren Vance kicked me from behind, discreetly.
I came back to myself and said: I appreciate your concern.
Lauren and I followed Dr. Ashmore as he showed us around the orphanage. Lauren asked about the details of his psychological counseling. He recounted the standard cases and explained his approach—tailored guidance sessions based on each patient's condition.
Lauren nodded along as if accepting his so-called tailored approach.
She jotted notes in her pad.
In the middle of their conversation, she suddenly looked up and asked: Dr. Ashmore, what is the sixth root of 16.7 million?
He said: Around one hundred sixty.
I stared at him. After Serena's death, I had done the math. One hundred sixty to the sixth power equals 16.7 million.
A normal person, without special preparation, couldn't calculate that so quickly. And Lauren had asked while he was momentarily distracted.
Lauren Vance said: Dr. Ashmore is quite the mathematician.
He said without flinching: It came up in a previous research project. Social psychology, specifically.
Lauren was about to ask more when a child's cry came from across the yard.
A little girl with pigtails ran toward Dr. Ashmore, wailing. He exclaimed softly, bent down, and scooped her up.
He patted her head and said: What happened, little one?
The little girl said: It broke.
She held up a Barbie doll—missing an arm.
He examined it carefully and said: Don't worry. Show me where it broke, and we'll fix her right up.
He turned to us: Excuse me, I need to tend to this.
He carried the girl away, soothing her, following her directions as he walked off.
After Dr. Ashmore was out of earshot, Lauren Vance closed her notebook and murmured: Social psychology.
I said: Find anything?
She said: Nice suit on him. Older man, but it makes him look sharp.
I said: That counts as a finding? I'm starting to doubt how you passed the police academy.
She glanced at me and said: What about you? You've been looking around the whole time we've been here.
I pointed at the swing in the yard.
I remembered Serena telling me that behind the swing, if you walked straight to the corner, you'd see an old tree, and in the shade beside it, a storage room.
I led Lauren toward it. She said: The storage room?
I said: When Serena was little and got bullied, she'd get locked in the storage room.
She said: I have a question. Where are the children who bullied her now?
I said: She never told me. She wouldn't even say who they were.
We reached the storage room. I pushed the door—it was locked. It was a sliding door with the lock built into the frame.
It reminded me of that day on the balcony. The sliding door had been locked then too.
A locked door and window. Thumbtacks scattered at her feet.
I looked back at the orphanage. In the spring sunlight, the childlike buildings rang with children's laughter.
What had Serena truly experienced in this place?
A clicking sound came from beside me. I turned.
Lauren Vance was crouched by the door, having removed her hair clip. She squinted one eye and focused on picking the lock.
I said: Detective, you're a police officer, aren't you?
She hissed at me to be quiet, pressed her ear to the door, and after a moment, a crisp click— the door slid open.
She stood up, brushed off her knees, and said: Lock-picking skills aren't a crime.
I said: True, this barely even counts as breaking and entering.
She said: It does. How does it not? —Give me your hand.
I held out my hand, mystified. She dropped the hair clip into my palm.
She said: You're the one who picked the lock.