Psychological fragments

Or rather, the identity of "Zhou Jianguo" has long been brazenly used by someone else.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had suddenly struck my mind, and I suddenly remembered a crucial question that I had completely overlooked.

"Officer Fang," my hand gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, my voice trembling, "what were the physical characteristics of the person who died in the house? Age? Height? Build? Tell me clearly!"

"A man in his sixties or seventies, of slender build, about 3 meters tall." He paused, then added, "When the body was discovered, it was already highly decomposed. The preliminary estimate of the time of death is between March 10th and 15th, and the specific cause of death is indeed a sudden cerebral hemorrhage."

The Zhou Jianguo I have registered in my clinic's records is a 45-year-old male, a middle-level manager in a company, 1.75 meters tall, and of well-proportioned build.

The person who died in that house was a complete stranger, someone who had no relation to him and was more than twenty years younger than him.

And what about Zhou Jianguo? Who is this man who appeared at my clinic every Wednesday afternoon for four consecutive weeks, wearing a thick medical mask, saying he had a bad cold and a hoarse voice, complaining of workplace anxiety, and coming for four consultations?

A crazy idea suddenly crashed into my head, making my eardrums buzz.

Could that person not be a man at all?

Could it be a woman disguised as a man?

Wearing a mask that covered most of her face and a loose sweatshirt that concealed her figure, she deliberately lowered her voice, making it sound hoarse and husky. If it were intentional, a slender woman could easily pass for the real Zhou Jianguo. She came to my clinic using the name Zhou Jianguo and consulted me four times.

Why did she do that?

She sat in my office, across the table. What was she looking at? What was she looking for?

The numbers etched into my bones flashed through my mind in an instant: 0723, 0531, 0812, 0924, 1107, 0103, 0318.

That interconnected chain of numbers. This deadly chain, beginning with Li Mingyuan and ending with Zhou Jianguo of 0318, came to a complete close. She placed herself at the very end of this deadly chain. Why? Did she want those who followed the chain to eventually find her? Or was she herself the truth behind everything?

I barely closed my eyes, lying on the hard bed in the safe house. As soon as I closed them, those images flooded back: Lin Nian lying stiffly on the waiting area floor, her half-open, unfocused eyes, her purplish-gray lips; and that note tucked in the file, after my name, that lonely question mark like a death warrant.

At three in the morning, the old neighborhood outside the window was so quiet that only the rustling of leaves in the wind could be heard. Suddenly, a detail flashed through my mind, like a needle pricking me hard.

During the first consultation, Lin Nian followed me into the clinic, and as we passed the door of the archives room, she glanced inside.

His gaze was so focused, so purposeful; it wasn't just a casual glance as he passed by. It was more like he was confirming something, searching for something.

What is she looking for?

Those file folders containing digital chains? Those sticky notes with He Chunfang's name on them? Or...?

I sat bolt upright in bed, my back instantly soaked in cold sweat.

What else is in the archives room besides rows of filing cabinets and file folders?

I closed my eyes, desperately trying to recall the layout of my archive room: floor-to-ceiling metal filing cabinets on all four walls, a wooden desk in the center of the room, and a low cabinet in the corner by the window containing some old documents and unused office supplies. Nothing else.

But that day, her gaze wasn't on the cabinet at all, but on the wall behind it. What was on that wall? I remember clearly; there was a very ordinary printed landscape painting hanging there, something I'd bought casually from a furniture market when I first opened my clinic. It'd been hanging there for almost five years, and I'd never touched it. Surely there couldn't be something behind the painting, could there? What if there was something hidden behind that painting?

I grabbed my phone, my fingertips already touching Fang Jue's number, but when I glanced at the time on the screen—3:07 AM—I forced myself to hold back.

I leaned against the headboard, my eyes fixed on the blurry light and shadow on the ceiling, my mind churning with those clues and questions, until the first light of dawn appeared outside the window, and the sky was completely bright.

At exactly eight o'clock in the morning, the knocking on the door rang out right on time.

With dark circles under my eyes, I went to open the door. Fang Jue was standing in the doorway. When he saw me, his brows furrowed almost imperceptibly. He didn't say anything, but simply handed me a warm breakfast bag.

"Eat something first to fill your stomach, then we'll go to the station."

I took the bag, absentmindedly ate a couple of bites of the bun, and followed him downstairs to get into the police car parked downstairs.

The city bureau's archives were much larger and more oppressive than I had imagined. All four walls were lined with tightly locked metal cabinets, just like the archives in my clinic, only colder and quieter. The air was thick with the smell of paper, ink, and dust, and even breathing felt heavy and oppressive.

Fang Jue led me to the innermost cabinet, took out a key to unlock it, opened the drawer, and took out seven brown paper file folders, which he neatly placed on the table in front of me.

"These are the seven files you requested. The originals are sealed in the evidence room. This is a paper backup, and the scanned copies are also on the computer. You can access them anytime you need."

I reached out and picked up the file folders; my fingertips trembled slightly as they touched the cold kraft paper. I unseal each one, poured out the contents, and read them word by word.

0723, Li Mingyuan. Sure enough, there was that note tucked inside, exactly the same as the one I had seen in my own file room before: "If something happens to me one day, please check this person—He Chunfang, female, about 55 years old, with a Henan accent, claiming to be a patient's family member, appeared in the waiting area three times in June 2019. She asked the receptionist about my schedule."

On the back of the file folder, four numbers were written in black pen: 0531.

0531, Wang Jing. Inside was also a yellowed note, the handwriting trembling violently: "He Chunfang appeared near my clinic twice in March 2020. She asked my assistant about my consultation hours. Be careful of this person."

0812, Liu Zhiqiang: "He Chunfang, in August 2020, bought something at the convenience store opposite my clinic and asked the clerk about my get off work schedule."

0924, Elaine Chao: "He Chunfang appeared downstairs at my apartment three times in January 2021. The security guard said she kept asking about my floor and apartment number."

1107, Sun Limin: "He Chunfang stood in front of my clinic for an entire afternoon in July 2021, and the entire time was captured on surveillance cameras. I don't know what she wanted to do, but I was very scared."

0103, Chen Hong: "He Chunfang appeared at my usual coffee shop in February 2022. The waiter said she repeatedly asked me about my arrival time and preferences. I felt like I was being watched."

The last one, 0318, Zhou Jianguo. Inside was only a note, exactly the same as the one I had seen before. There were no consultation records, no medical records, only this line: "If something happens to me one day, please check this person—He Chunfang, female, about 55 years old, with a Henan accent, claiming to be a patient's family member, who appeared in the waiting area three times in June 2019. She asked the receptionist about my schedule."

But this time, I didn't just look at the handwriting on the front. I held the thin note up, held it up to the incandescent light above the archives, and flipped it over to the back.

This is a very ordinary lined sticky note, made of the same paper as the previous six, but the edges are uneven, as if it was torn too hard when it was torn from the notebook.

On the back of the paper, when held up to the light, you can vaguely see some uneven marks from the writing, as if someone had written something underneath the paper, with the pen tip pressing too hard, leaving an imprint on the paper, or perhaps it was written directly on the paper and then erased forcefully with an eraser.

"Officer Fang," I said without looking up, my voice extremely low, as if I were holding my breath, "do you have a magnifying glass? Give me one."

Fang Jue didn't ask any more questions. He turned around, took a magnifying glass from the tool cabinet next to him, and handed it to me.

I held the sticky note up to the light again, took the magnifying glass, and slowly moved it across the paper. The faint, almost invisible creases gradually revealed their outlines under the magnifying glass and the light. My heart was pounding faster and faster, my fingertips were trembling so badly that I could barely hold the magnifying glass.

I held my breath and studied for a very long time before finally managing to make out a few crooked characters from among the messy indentations.

Those were four characters, each stroke trembling with excessive force:

"Xiao...Min...don't...be afraid..."