American comic book: I, with my abundant martial virtue, love to do good to others.

More importantly—this wasn't an impulsive murder. It was done by someone who knew the equipment's lifespan, the blind spots, and how to delay the discovery of the body.

The sheriff stood up, his voice suddenly hardening: "Bring out all the people with access to the equipment parameters from last night to today, including those who have the authority to access the equipment cycle records."

"Now," Lynn said.

The sheriff glanced at him: "I'm not waiting for next Christmas."

The forensic team has made a new discovery. The metal shavings in the cracks of the drain don't initially appear to be from the wear of ordinary blades; they look more like particles from high-carbon steel wire or extremely fine hard alloy edges rubbing together. Combined with the black lines on the grille and the faint burnt smell, the whole line seems to have sprouted bones from the air.

Alvin, listening nearby, turned pale: "But how familiar must someone be with this system to know when the water flow will cut off?"

"Yes," the sheriff said, "and they have to be people you know so well you don't think you'll get arrested."

Lynn asked, "Is this schedule fixed, or can someone change it in advance?"

Alvin replied, "Theoretically, the security control panel should also be able to see it, and the engineering staff on duty should also be able to modify it. But it wasn't modified today, and the system logs will record it."

Who watches it most often?

"Security supervisor, night shift manager, engineering foreman... and even the front desk duty manager can theoretically be transferred, but it's generally not done."

The sheriff didn't say anything, but simply memorized the names of those positions.

Lynn turned and walked out.

"Where are you going again?" the sheriff asked.

"608, and the guest room department downstairs."

"You can't—"

"What I want to ask is who delivered things to that old lady, who collected the trash from her room, and who paid attention to her face." Lynn paused. "If you think that's not important, then go find out yourself."

The sheriff stared at him for two seconds, but eventually followed him.

The sixth-floor corridor was much quieter than the fifth. A young police officer stood at the door of 608; inside, the forensic team had already flipped the mattress halfway up and removed the bathroom mirror light. The room was still clean, uncomfortably clean. The curtains were only slightly ajar, and the shadows of the trees on the hillside slanted in, as if cutting the room in two.

A female forensic scientist emerged from the bathroom, carrying two small bags of evidence.

"There's something," she said.

The sheriff took it and looked at it: "What is this?"

"One bag contained grayish-white residue scraped from the drain filter, containing synthetic fibers of varying lengths, with a silvery-gray color," the female forensic witness said. "The other bag contained a small piece of flesh-colored film and a bit of brownish-red pigment, like remnants of stage makeup or prosthetic makeup."

"Wigs and latex," Lynn said.

The female forensic expert nodded: "Most likely. The bathroom trash can was too clean; it must have been emptied, but the drain wouldn't be so easy to clean."

The sheriff glanced at the room, and the last vestige of "maybe he's just a strange guest" vanished completely.

Lynn walked to the vanity mirror and looked at the edge of the mirror. In front of the mirror was a small box of cotton pads provided free of charge by the hotel, but it was only half full. Next to it was a crumpled tissue that had been thrown back into the mirror. There was a very faint beige stain on the corner of the tissue.

He picked it up and smelled it.

It smells like cleansing oil and alcohol.

"She removed her face mask after going back to her room last night," Lynn said.

The sheriff stood by the bed: "In other words, that old woman is most likely not an old woman at all."

"And it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision." Lynn looked at her own and the sheriff's reflections in the mirror. "She brought a whole set."

Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door. The front desk manager, Elena, entered with the housekeeping supervisor and a young woman in her twenties. The young woman, seeing the commotion in the room, visibly tensed up, her shoulders hunching.

"This is Tessa," the housekeeping manager said. "She's been mainly cleaning room 608 these past two days."

The sheriff tried to keep his voice calm: "Tessa, don't be nervous. Just answer our questions. If you can't remember, just say you can't remember."

Tessa nodded.

"The customer in room 608," Lynn spoke first, "has she asked you to send her anything special these past few days?"

"Yes," Tessa said softly. "Yesterday afternoon she asked for a sewing kit, a kettle, and... she also said she has sensitive skin and wanted alcohol swabs and extra makeup remover pads."

"Is she wearing heavy makeup?" Lynn asked.

"It's not very noticeable during the day," Tessa thought, frowning. "But this morning... no, when I went in to get some coffee yesterday at noon, I saw a little gray... like strands of hair, but stiffer than hair, on the bathroom counter. I thought it was a thread from my clothes at the time."

"Where's her face?" the sheriff asked.

Tessa hesitated for a moment: "Up close...it looks a bit strange."

"What's so strange?"

"It's not that she's ugly, it's just..." She raised her hand to measure her cheekbone, "...it's too stable here when she smiles. The lines under her eyes look like they're drawn on. Also, there was a bit of white glue showing at the edge of her ear once."

The sheriff slowly exhaled: "Why didn't you say so?"

Tessa flinched at his words: "I thought it was just old age and bad skin, or something from the medical tape..."

Lynn asked, "Did you see any books when she was packing? Old books with green covers."

"I've seen it," Tessa nodded immediately. "She always carries it. She even keeps it next to her when she eats breakfast. But she never actually flips through more than a few pages. It's just... like a habit."

"When did she go back to her room last night?"

"The last time I saw her before I left work was around nine o'clock. She came out of the elevator, walking quite quickly, unlike a person during the day." Tessa frowned. "The old lady shouldn't be walking so briskly."

The sheriff glanced at Lynn and muttered something under his breath.

Lynn continued, "Did 608 check out this morning?"

"No," Elena replied. "There's no official check-out in the system. Her room key was last swiped at 11:07 last night."

"After that, the person and the items disappeared without being scanned again," the sheriff said.

"She probably didn't leave through the main entrance," Lynn said.

Elena's face paled even more.

Lynn looked at her: "Who had the first authority to open the door in the resort's logistics area this morning?"

"Night shift manager, security supervisor, kitchen morning shift foreman, laundry room shift supervisor, engineering foreman." Elena paused, "and me, but I'm at the front desk until 6:40."

"Who can vouch for you?" the sheriff asked.

"Front-desk monitoring, and concierge Carl," Elena answered quickly.

The sheriff nodded and didn't press her any further.

Lynn asked, "What time did the security supervisor first appear this morning?"

Elena thought for a moment: "It was either 7:02 or 7:03. After the waiter Noah called out, I received a call first, and then notified him. He arrived at the top floor a little later than me."

"Last night?"

"He patrolled the building very late last night; I saw him at the front desk at 11:30."

Lynn didn't ask any more questions, but instead looked at the housekeeping manager: "Who cleaned up the trash for guest 608 last night?"

"She didn't collect it," the housekeeping manager said. "She hung up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. When we went in at noon today, the trash cans were almost empty."

"Who went in first?"

"I'm with Tessa."

"Is the front door locked?"

"Locked."

"Where's the window?"

"Keep it locked."

Lynn stood still for two seconds, then turned to the sheriff: "I want to see Ben."

When Ben Cardenas sat in the small meeting room for the second time, he looked even more haggard than in the morning. His hair was a little messy, he had light stubble on his chin, and dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't touched the cup of coffee beside him. When he looked up and saw Lynn enter, his expression froze for a moment, then turned into a kind of irritation that he no longer bothered to feign composure.

"Here we go again," he said.

The sheriff sat down opposite him. "Sit up straight. Ben, I'm giving you one last chance. Did Violet show you anything, mention anything, or ask you to do anything for her last night?"

Ben wiped his face: "I've already said, we only met last night."

Lynn leaned against the door without sitting down: "Then why did you pause on the word 'box'?"

He remained silent.

The sheriff stared at him: "You know the stupidest thing you can do right now isn't lying, it's lying the kind of lie that's obvious at a glance."

Ben closed his eyes briefly, as if he had finally been forced to the point where he couldn't bear to hold on any longer. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it."

"Speak," the sheriff said.

Ben glanced at Lynn, then looked back at the table: "She did have something last night."

"What is it like?" Lynn asked.

"A small silver box. Not a jewelry box, more like... more like a waterproof pillbox, but more delicate. Less than the length of a palm." Ben gestured with both hands to show the size. "She took it out briefly, then quickly put it back."

"What's inside?" the sheriff asked.

"I didn't see clearly. She deliberately didn't let me see." Ben's tone contained a hint of annoyance that he himself was unwilling to admit. "She said she just wanted to find someone who looked harmless to have a drink with her tonight, so that others would think she wasn't waiting for anyone."

There was a half-second of silence in the room.

The sheriff looked up: "You're the one who looks harmless."

Ben's face immediately darkened: "Probably."

Lynn asked, "What else did she say?"

Ben gritted his teeth: "She said that if anyone asks tomorrow, just say we stayed together until 11:30 last night. I asked her why, and she said, 'Because men always feel like they're helping a woman by testifying for her.' I didn't agree."

"But you still postponed the time this morning," Lynn said.

This silence.

"Because you're afraid you'll look like you're lying," Lynn finished for him. "Or you think that by covering her up a little, you'll make yourself seem like you still have a place in her secret."

Ben suddenly looked up: "Is your way of talking always this annoying?"

"Only when someone else uses my sister as a scapegoat."

His Adam's apple bobbed slightly, and his gaze averted for a moment.

The sheriff asked, "Did she mention any names? R, or Rose, Ruth, Rachel, Rafael, anything that starts with R?"

This time, Ben didn't deny it immediately. He frowned and thought for a moment, then lowered his voice even further: "She made a phone call. She went outside to the bar's terrace to make it. When she came back, I asked her if it was her boyfriend, and she smiled and said, 'If he deserved that title, I wouldn't have taken the risk.' Then she added—"

"What?" Lynn asked.

“‘R thinks everyone will follow the path he’s written.’” Ben looked up at the two of them. “I thought she was complaining about some controlling client.”

The sheriff tapped his finger on the table: "Is it 'him'?"

"She said 'he' in English."

Lynn and the sheriff exchanged a glance.

R is a man.

Now, Ruth Mason is either a fake identity or just a middleman.

Lynn continued, "Did she mention anyone at the manor that she didn't trust?"

Ben nodded this time: "She said there's 'someone who looks too much like a staff member' here, and told me not to give out my room number to just anyone."

"Too much like a staff member?" the sheriff frowned.

“Yes,” Ben said. “I asked her what she meant, and she said, ‘It’s the kind of person who treats every corner like their own territory.’ I thought she was talking about people in the service industry.”

Lynn did not respond.

"And another thing," Ben seemed to remember something and sat up straighter, "Last night when she asked me to go back to the fifth floor with her, as the elevator was about to arrive, she suddenly stuffed the box back into her bag and whispered, 'Don't look at that security supervisor, he'll remember your face.'"

The air in the room seemed to drop even lower.

The sheriff slowly turned his head to look at Lynn.

Lynn had already stood up straight.

"What's the security supervisor's name?" he asked.

"Thomas Weill," the sheriff said.

"Last night on the rooftop, he was the first to emphasize that 'Gwen only has one access control record,'" Lynn said, looking at the sheriff. "That was too early."

The sheriff narrowed his eyes: "You think he's setting the tone?"

"I think he was covering for someone who can't be seen from the very beginning."

As the sheriff stood up, the chair leg dragged on the carpet with a short thud. "Don't arrest him yet. Nail him to death first."

"Then nail it first," Lynn said.

When Thomas Weir was called into the monitoring room, his face still held that trained composure. He was in his forties, broad-shouldered, with short-shaved hair, his uniform crisp as if it had just been ironed, and his posture more steady than that of the average security guard at the resort. In the morning, when the scene was too chaotic, this composure would seem reliable; now, it began to look somewhat deliberate.

As soon as he entered, he saw the sheriff first, then Lynn, without any obvious change in expression.

"You were looking for me," he said.

The sheriff gestured for him to sit. Thomas sat down cleanly, his hands resting flat on his knees, without crossing them or making any unnecessary movements.

"Thomas," the sheriff pushed a printed duty roster in front of him, "what time this morning did you first check the rooftop pool surveillance footage?"

"Around seven o'clock," Thomas said.

"Sure."

"almost."

"It's not 6:30, not 6:40, and not 6:55."

Thomas frowned slightly. "No. Is something wrong?"

Lynn stood next to the monitor screen, not looking at him, and asked casually, "Did you know that the backflow system in the northwest corner of the roof will intensify its flushing at 6:55?"

Thomas looked at him: "I know there's probably a morning cycle, but the specific parameters aren't my responsibility."

"You don't know about time, but you do know about cycles." Lynn then turned her head. "Then why did you say so quickly this morning that the access control didn't capture a second person, so there couldn't have been anyone else?"

Thomas remained calm: "Because that's the fact."

“That’s not true,” Lynn said. “That’s a conclusion you want others to accept first.”

Thomas's lips tightened slightly: "Are you interrogating me, or just venting?" (End of Chapter)