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

"We'll wait until the case is closed before we get in line," Lynn said.

The sheriff glanced at him: "Your statement is exactly the same as before."

"Explanation is a good suggestion."

Finally, there was a very light, barely normal breath in the room.

But this "normal" moment only lasted for less than ten seconds. There was another knock at the door, and the deputy sheriff poked his head in: "Sheriff, Thomas has spoken."

The sheriff's expression changed slightly: "What did you say?"

"He said Rachel wasn't part of the first group to silence Violet," the deputy sheriff said. "She was just there to clean up the mess. The 'R' who actually met Violet on the rooftop didn't show up this morning because he was already in 507 last night."

The three people in the room fell silent for a moment.

Gwen was the first to react: "Last night?"

"Thomas said," the deputy sheriff swallowed, "that less than ten minutes after Violet returned to room 507 at 11:22 last night, there was another opening of the door, but that lock record was deleted from the front desk. The person who deleted the record wasn't Thomas, but someone with the highest front desk access."

All eyes slowly fell on the deputy sheriff at the door, and then, as if through him, on the ever-shining desk lamp downstairs.

Elena.

Gwen cursed first: "Fuck."

The sheriff had already turned and was walking out: "Seal off the front desk! Don't let her leave!"

Lynn was a step ahead. The carpet on the fifth-floor corridor absorbed his footsteps, and with the elevator still going up, he slammed open the emergency door and rushed down the stairs. Gwen followed a couple of steps behind, but the policewoman instinctively stopped her.

"I'm no longer a suspect," Gwen said.

The policewoman was taken aback.

"And now you're missing one person who can recognize faces." Gwen pushed her hand away. "Get out of the way."

When Lynn rushed into the lobby, there was a brief commotion at the front desk. The lights were still warm, the flowers were still neatly arranged, and the fire in the fireplace was still burning, as if this were still just a villa lobby for people to take pictures and drink. But there was an empty seat behind the front desk—Elena wasn't there.

Concierge Carl stood to the side, his face pale: "She just said she was going to get the guest files!"

"Where are you going to get it?" the sheriff roared.

"An underground archive, or an office—"

Lynn had already bypassed the front desk. Her work computer on the counter was still lit, the screen displayed on the door lock management backend. In the upper right corner was a remote access control window that had just been closed, target room: 507.

"She wasn't going to pick up a file," Lynn said.

Gwen had barely caught her breath when she reached the lobby and saw Lynn turn the screen to the sheriff. At the bottom of the screen was a draft of an unsent text message, addressed to an unaddressed number, containing only one sentence:

"They found out, so they took the other half, following Route B."

Gwen stared at the line of text: "What is Route B?"

Lynn looked up at the wine cellar sign at the other end of the lobby, behind which was a passageway leading to the underground storage and the old boiler room.

"B isn't the route," he said. "It's Polly."

Then he ran in that direction.

As Lynn rushed into the corridor leading to the underground wine cellar and the old boiler room, he was first met with a blast of even colder air.

No matter how warm the ground floor of Grey Ridge Manor is, the underground temperature is still a different story. The walls are made of old stone, and the surface has been repainted with a warmer color, but the dampness underneath can't be contained. The lights aren't as bright as in the lobby; they're embedded in the arched ceiling, casting damp and cold shadows.

At the end of the corridor, there are two paths: one leads to the wine cellar and cold storage, and the other goes deeper into the area, marked "Old Boiler Room/Equipment Storage/Employee Restricted Access".

The sheriff caught up from behind, his voice heavy with urgency: "Separate?"

"No." Lynn didn't stop. "If she really goes astray, one person can't stop her."

Gwen followed, still a little breathless, but didn't fall behind: "Who's Polly?"

"It's not a person," Lynn said. "It's most likely a place name or a code name."

"Is there a place called this in the resort?" the sheriff asked Carl, the chauffeur who had followed them.

Karl's face was ashen, clearly still reeling from the shock of the sudden emptiness at the front desk: "No. I... I haven't heard of it."

Gwen suddenly asked, "Isn't there an old storage area behind the underground wine cellar?"

Carl paused, then said, "Yes... before the renovation, there was a small barrel silo behind the cellar called the 'Barley Room,' though the old blueprints said it was the barley room. Later, customers kept mispronouncing the name, so the support staff just called it 'Barley.'"

Lynn paused, then immediately turned toward the wine cellar.

"That's it."

The deputy sheriff muttered from behind, "She really knows how to pick names to hide."

"She didn't hide it for us to see," Lynn said. "She sent it to people who already knew the location."

The lights ahead dimmed further, and rows of liquor racks began to appear on both sides of the aisle. Wood, metal, and glass filled the air with the mingled scents of liquor, corks, and the damp stone characteristic of a basement. The further in you went, the quieter it became; the hushed conversations and footsteps in the lobby disappeared, leaving only the sound of shoes crunching on the stone floor.

"Ahead," Gwen suddenly whispered.

Her nose twitched slightly, and her gaze fell on a row of liquor boxes against the wall on the right. "It smells like perfume."

Lynn looked over.

That's not the kind of smell you'd find in a wine cellar. It's very subtle in sweetness, rather cold, like a white floral note with a touch of pepper. It's very similar to the perfectly balanced, never overpowering, aroma of Elena's receptionist.

The sergeant raised his hand, signaling the two officers behind him to be quieter.

The thick wooden door at the far end of the wine cellar was half-open. The sign on the door was old, and next to it was a refurbished small brass plaque: Barrel Storage Area, Staff Only.

There was no light coming through the crack in the door.

Lynn raised her hand and gently pushed him away.

It was colder inside than outside. The old barrel storage area had been empty for years; most of the barrels had been moved away, leaving only a few discarded large barrels standing against the wall. The roof was low, and the beams made one instinctively want to bend over. At the very back, there was an even narrower door leading to the old boiler room; the door was currently ajar, letting out a pale glimmer of light.

"She went down," Lynn said.

The deputy sheriff gave a wink to the officers behind him, and two officers advanced along the wall from either side.

Gwen stared at the ground: "Wait."

Lynn looked at her.

"Don't step in the middle." She raised her chin. "The wine stains are wrong."

Everyone's gaze fell on it.

There was indeed a small puddle of dark liquid in the center of the old stone ground, looking like someone had accidentally spilled red wine. But the edges were too neat, and the smell was rather pungent, suppressing the aroma of wine.

Lynn squatted down, but instead of touching it with his fingers, he just brought it close and smelled it.

"It's not alcohol."

The sheriff's face darkened: "What is it?"

"There's something mixed in the cleaning agent, maybe alkali, maybe volatile substances." Lynn looked up. "She wants people to slip, or she wants to instinctively distract anyone who follows her in."

Gwen said softly, "She's never been one to react on the fly."

"How do you know she always is?" the sheriff asked instinctively.

Gwen didn't look at him; her eyes were still fixed on the narrow door. "From deleting records at the front desk to leaving text messages, and then showing 'Polly' to people who already knew. This isn't panicking and running around; it's retreating while simultaneously patching up the threads. She still thinks she can get out."

Lynn stood up: "Then don't give her time."

He bypassed the puddle of liquid on the ground and passed through the narrow doorway first.

Beyond that was a short staircase leading down, the iron handrail icy cold. Further in, the space suddenly widened; the old boiler room resembled a cavity buried beneath the mountain villa, with a higher ceiling, crisscrossing pipes, and several large, long-abandoned boilers lying on the floor like enormous, dark animal carcasses. After the renovation, it was clearly used as a storage area for miscellaneous items and spare equipment; rolls of carpet, folding tables and chairs, and large decorative boxes used only during the Christmas season were piled against the walls. At the far end, there was an iron door leading to the maintenance passage below the unloading ramp.

The wind was blowing in through the crack in the door.

"She's going out!" the deputy sheriff shouted.

The next second, a soft "click" sound suddenly came from the deepest shadow.

Lynn almost instinctively pulled the sheriff aside.

A floor-standing metal rack suddenly toppled over in the middle of the aisle, smashing stacks of spare bottles and toolboxes with a series of deafening crashes. Glass shattered everywhere, and liquor and some other liquid splashed out, instantly filling the air with a pungent smell of alcohol.

"Get down!" the sheriff roared.

The two officers immediately lowered their guard, and the deputy sergeant moved to the left.

Lynn had already used the noise to cut through the shaded area behind a boiler. A figure flashed in front of him, and Elena was right by the maintenance door. She had taken off the well-tailored coat she wore at the front desk, leaving only a light-colored shirt and black trousers underneath. Her hair was a little messy, and in her hand, instead of a gun, she held a small black bag and something that looked like a remote control, about the size of her palm.

She saw Lynn approaching, but her eyes didn't panic; they just turned a little colder.

"You came so quickly," she said.

"You should have thought of that when you sent the text message." Lynn slowly stopped about eight yards away from her. "You didn't take your phone with you, like you deliberately left it for someone to see."

"That's how it is," Elena said. "Someone has to bring all the idiots downstairs for me."

The sheriff had already circled around the boiler on the other side, pointing his gun at her: "Throw your bag on the ground, and put your hands up."

Elena didn't look at him, but only at Lynn: "You're a little more troublesome than I expected."

Gwen's voice came from behind, slightly hoarse from running over: "She never had her eye on me from the start; it was the person behind the 507 door lock."

Elena's gaze then passed over Lynn and landed on Gwen.

She seemed to smile, but it was also as if she didn't.

"You're smarter than you look," she said.

Gwen caught her breath and stood in the shadows by the boiler, her face still pale, but her eyes were steady: "Thank you. You treat everyone like a tool more than you seem."

"What else can I do?" Elena said flatly. "Wait until someone else uses me as a tool first?"

The sheriff stepped forward: "Enough nonsense. Are you R?"

Elena finally looked at him, a slight smile playing on her lips: "You guys spent so much time chasing after the letter R, but you couldn't even figure out the letter itself."

"What do you mean?" The deputy sheriff approached from the left.

“R isn’t a name,” Elena said. “At least not just. It’s the position on the chain that’s responsible for ‘closing and recycling.’ Rachel is one, Raphael used to be one, and as for Thomas—he’s not even close to it, he just got paid to open the door.”

Lynn stared at the small remote control in her hand: "What kind of mess are you trying to clean up now?"

"Every little bit helps," she said.

"Then hand it over," the sheriff said coldly. "Where's the other half of the module?"

Elena's eyes flickered, then she chuckled softly: "Didn't you already find the detached house?"

"Don't pretend," Lynn said. "You sent them the 'take the other half' offer. You know the other half isn't in our hands."

Elena didn't answer.

Gwen suddenly said, "507."

Everyone looked at her.

Gwen's eyes never left Elena: "The remote access she just opened at the front desk was 507, not 608, and it's not a detached house. That means she's not afraid of us catching her, but rather that we go back to 507 first."

Lynn felt as if something had suddenly locked her up.

Violet returned to room 507 at 11:22 PM last night, and less than ten minutes later, she opened the door again. The person who deleted the records had the highest privileges at the front desk. After that, Violet didn't leave the room again—at least not in the system. But what if the person who actually went into room 507 that night wasn't there to kill her, but to take her partner who hadn't taken her to the rooftop?

The sheriff immediately realized: "She hid the thing in 507, but Elena couldn't find it."

“Yes,” Gwen said. “And she hasn’t gotten it yet, otherwise she wouldn’t be here talking to us.”

The faint calm on Elena's face finally cracked slightly.

It's very fine, but it's enough.

Lynn said in a low voice, "You don't know exactly where it's hidden, so you need time. But with the front desk closed, you know you can't openly go back to the fifth floor anymore, so you want someone to use Route B to stall for time—it would be even better if you could lure us all down."

"That was great," Elena said. "It's a pity it's too late."

She pressed her thumb, and a red light lit up on the small remote control in her hand.

At the same second, a muffled "bang" came from deep inside the old boiler room.

It wasn't an explosion; it was more like a valve suddenly popping open somewhere.

Two abandoned heating pipes on the side of the wall immediately spewed out large plumes of white steam, and the scalding steam instantly swallowed half of the boiler room, turning the view into a sudden white expanse.

"Back off!" the sheriff roared.

"Don't shoot!" Lynn shouted almost simultaneously.

Nothing could be seen in the white fog, except for the loud crash of a metal door being smashed open. Elena rushed into the maintenance passage.

As Lynn followed, the hot steam brushed against his face, feeling like a layer of damp, warm hand coating his eyes, making them wet. The maintenance passage was narrower than the boiler room, with low-hanging old pipes and cable trays overhead, and puddles on the floor that made shoes slippery. The footsteps ahead were quick but light; Elena clearly knew the place well.

"How on earth does she know these roads?!" the deputy sheriff cursed from behind.

Carl called out from the back, "The front desk training will cover some of that, and the supervisors all know it! But she shouldn't know about boiler valves—"

"Thomas provided the diagrams," Lynn said.

Suddenly, a light appeared at the bend ahead; a flashlight shone.

The next second, a fire extinguisher came crashing down from around the corner.

Lynn dodged to the side, the fire extinguisher scraping against the wall and crashing down with a muffled thud. The white dry powder immediately dispersed, creating another layer of choking mist in the narrow passage.

The sheriff coughed. "She's fucking well-prepared."

Gwen was being pulled back by the policewoman to keep her from getting too close, but she still shouted, "She walks lightly when she's wearing heels, but now she's in flats, listen to the right!"

Lynn immediately lunged towards the right fork in the road. (End of Chapter)