The Sixth "Killer"
I had a rough idea, though I wasn't sure if it was accurate—during one operation, a choice Lauren made had gotten her friend killed. Her despair came from the guilt deep within her heart. And those people had used words and scenario recreations to unleash the shadows within her, consuming her.
And in the end, they offered her a path—atonement.
I noticed that the security guard hadn't said, "It's time for you to go." He had said, "It's time to hit the road."
In the bathroom, I was hunched over, one foot on the edge of the tub, arm outstretched, gripping Lauren's pinky.
I ran through two plans in my mind. One: based on my speculation, try to talk Lauren down. Two: lower my foot slightly, pressing it against the inner edge of the tub to give myself a point to push off from.
If my guess was wrong and Lauren broke free, I would immediately push off with my foot and lunge for the window. I'd risk falling too, but as long as I could grab hold of her—her hair, her ankle—she'd at least have a chance.
Even with both plans, the risk was enormous. But this was the best I could do.
Here goes nothing.
I said: It wasn't your fault.
Lauren closed her eyes in anguish and said: It was me, it was me... If I hadn't done that, she wouldn't have died. I shouldn't have...
I said: But your intentions were good, weren't they?
She shook her head, speaking in fragments: I'm not sure... I just suspected the kidnapper was him, so I acted on my own, and it got her killed... dead...
I said: You're a police officer. Fighting criminals is your duty. The moment she learned you came to rescue her, she must have been happy. What happened after was beyond your prediction—it was an accident.
She said: If it weren't for me, the accident wouldn't have happened. It was me...
I said: Yes. You bear responsibility for that person's death.
I paused. But you're not the killer.
Lauren's eyes slowly opened. I saw her expression soften, though her gaze was still distant.
She said: The killer... isn't me?
I didn't know everything that had happened at that scene. The ambiguous things I'd said applied to a broad range of situations—I'd gotten lucky, hitting close enough to stabilize her emotions somewhat. But I wouldn't be able to push any further.
I gathered all my strength and shouted: So you think killing yourself to atone is something she could bear?
Lauren stared blankly, saying nothing.
I said: You went there to save her. If you kill yourself over saving her, how is she supposed to rest in peace? Do you want her to blame herself the way you do?
I said: At the very least—for her sake—choose another way to atone.
I saw a flicker of light return to Lauren's eyes.
She said: What should I... do?
I said: Right now, slowly, step down from the window. I'll tell you.
Lauren hesitated, shifting her weight slightly inward.
She lowered her feet slowly, finding the edge of the bathtub.
She stepped down, her legs unsteady, and tumbled into the tub.
I threw myself forward and caught her.
She collapsed in my arms and wept openly.
I took off my jacket, draped it over her shoulders, stroked her hair, and murmured: It's okay. It's over now.
I looked down at her. The white lines behind her had snapped. The five shadow figures, disconnected, crumbled away like powder.
In the end, I didn't need the backup plan.
Really, thank God.
I saved her. Thank God.
Serena, I did it.
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Evening light filled Lauren's living room.
She wrapped herself in a blanket, hugged her knees to her chest, and curled up on the sofa.
I boiled water, made tea, and handed her a cup. I wanted to say something, but didn't know where to begin.
She sipped the hot tea she cradled in her hands, her gaze low. Having just cried in my arms, she now seemed unable to bring herself to speak either.
After a long silence, I said: The bathroom was full of steam. I couldn't really see your—uh, I mean, it was an emergency. I was just focused on getting you down...
She said softly: I know.
I rubbed my nose, embarrassed.
She said: Is your eye okay?
I rubbed my left eye and said: Does it look abnormal?
She shook her head. Just more blood vessels than usual. Otherwise fine.
I found it rather remarkable—I had drawn a knife across my eyeball, likely slicing the cornea and lens. Yet there was no pain, and my vision was unaffected. On the contrary, my left eye now saw things more clearly than ever.
It was almost like gua sha.
Lauren pulled the blanket tighter around herself and curled up smaller.
She said: Earlier... thank you.
I said: Don't mention it.
She said: So... your left eye can see my despair too now?
I recounted the corridor, the reception, the elevator, the security guard to Lauren. She told me that what I had described matched, down to the smallest detail, what she had experienced after leaving Dr. Ashmore's clinic.
I said: Why did you suddenly go to Dr. Ashmore?
She said: I was planning to tell you later... I went to interrogate him.
I said: Interrogate?
She said: Didn't I tell you? The evidence we have isn't even as effective as his own confession. I studied interrogation psychology at the police academy—create information asymmetry, make the suspect think the case against them is exposed, push them toward making a deal with police. They'll reveal part of the truth to relieve the pressure, and then you can extract a confession. I planned to use that approach to get some leads out of him.
I said: That sounds... not entirely legal.
Lauren placed a blue hair clip on the coffee table.
Then I caught on and quickly said: Ah—right, that was my idea.
Lauren lowered her head and said: He turned it around on me—I went to see him pretending to be a patient, so he kept steering the conversation toward my psychological issues. Before I realized what was happening, I had already revealed most of my deepest trauma. My mood dropped, he stepped out to make a phone call, and then he gave me a suggestion.
Lauren asked me to open her handbag and take out her notepad. I flipped to the page and found she had written:
Dr. Ashmore's suggestions:
If you feel pain, do some math problems with large calculations.
If you have doubts, ask the person closest to you—they will give you an answer and set you free.
Lauren continued: Later, the secretary pointed out the white flower on my chest and asked if I was going to see a friend. That line was eerie—it frightened me, because I hadn't put that flower there. Thinking back now, the secretary probably slipped it onto me when she spilled the coffee. The corridor was dimly lit; I wouldn't have noticed her planting it on me.
Lauren said: After that, things went from bad to worse. The older woman's behavior threw me right back into that incident. The two men at reception, playing off each other, reminded me that the victim's family still hasn't forgiven me.
I reminded her: That was the moment you started doing math.
She said: Yes. My chest felt so tight, and my mind was flooded with negative thoughts. I remembered what Dr. Ashmore said about doing math, so I started calculating—one plus one, two plus two. It helped a little, so I kept increasing the difficulty, and before I knew it I was computing out loud. The most demanding problem I remember was one hundred sixty to the sixth power. By then my consciousness was already starting to blur.
She said: When the security guard said he used to be a police officer, I actually felt a little better. But then he dropped that word about atonement out of nowhere, and all my negative emotions found a focal point. I kept saying the victim's family hadn't forgiven me, but really, it was me who couldn't forgive myself. And his final line—"it's time to hit the road"—I couldn't even tell whose voice it was anymore. I almost thought it was my own.
She said: The rest, you know. I came home and tried to kill myself. Actually, I was aware of what I was doing the entire time. My rational mind was still fighting against death—one voice told me to die, that death would be liberation; another voice told me to live. I was caught between the two, suffocating. Doing the calculations gave me just enough room to breathe. I kept computing one hundred sixty to the sixth power in my head, over and over. But by then I had lost the ability to calculate—I couldn't solve it. And then something terrible happened: the math problem fused with those two voices, the one telling me to die and the one telling me to live.
I glanced at the notepad. One of Dr. Ashmore's suggestions read:
"If you have doubts, ask the person closest to you—they will give you an answer and set you free."
I said: Until I asked if you were okay...
Lauren twirled a strand of hair and said: When I heard your voice, I just blurted out the question. At that moment, I wanted to ask you so many things—whether I was a killer, whether I deserved forgiveness, whether I should die... But my mind couldn't organize the words anymore. The only thing I could manage to say out loud was a string of numbers.
I asked her: If I had given the right answer, what would you have done?
She said: At the time, I wasn't capable of judging whether your answer was right or wrong.
My face went pale with shock.
Lauren's words revealed something terrifying.
I had been puzzling over why, in Six Degrees Murder, there were only five shadow figures behind Serena.
In that moment, I glimpsed the truth.
Lauren said: After I asked that math problem, I finally felt calm. The two voices disappeared, and there was only my own inner voice saying—not yet, I had to wait for the answer.
She said: When you started calculating from the second power, I was still waiting. When you reached the fifth power, I felt an inexplicable happiness... My mind held only one thought: the answer is almost here, once I get the answer, I can die.
She said: After that, you talked me down and saved me.
I couldn't speak.
Lauren hesitated, then said: Looking at it this way, Dr. Ashmore didn't just use five people...
Yes. Lauren had realized it too.
On Lauren. On Serena. The reason I couldn't see how the math problem had been planted in their minds was because one hundred sixty to the sixth power wasn't part of the origin of their despair.
It was the fuse of the bomb.
Whether I answered correctly or not, once they received the answer, they would no longer hesitate. They would obey those implanted suggestions and resolutely take their own lives.
Six Degrees Murder.
There really were six people.
I was the sixth.
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