Chapter 12: I Can’t Win Against Gan Ling

Two days later, I saw Li Yongquan’s girlfriend.

I was on the path from the auditorium to the two-story annex building, pushing a little cart that squeaked noisily as I hauled stuff along. Suddenly, I spotted a woman’s figure in the bike shelter. Out of conditioned reflex, I thought it was Gan Ling pulling the same stunt again. I immediately rushed forward to confront and block her, words already on the tip of my tongue—when the woman whipped her head around, revealing two braids tied back behind her ears.

I’d gotten it wrong. I swallowed my words, but she’d already seen me.

“Hey, sis! Sis, can I ask when you all get off work?” The girl was wearing a black crop top that exposed her navel, a pair of high-waisted jeans with a mismatched men’s belt hanging off them, and she shifted uncomfortably in her strappy high-heeled sandals as she turned to face me. She was skinny, with bones sticking out a bit.

I told her we got off at six-thirty in summer and six in winter.

Her eyebrows suddenly shot up. She pulled out a sparkly phone encrusted with rhinestones and tapped away furiously.

I gripped the cart to leave, but after the wheel had just rolled once, she called out, “Then do you know Li Yongquan? Has the kindergarten been super busy these past few days?!”

I recalled Li Yongquan standing in the Sunflower Class puffing on a cigarette. My lips pressed together, and I swallowed the words I’d been about to say. “Yeah, these past couple days have been pretty busy. And you are…?”

“Oh, I’m Li Yongquan’s girlfriend. It’s nothing, sis. Go ahead with what you were doing.”

I didn’t pry any further and walked off, feeling a twinge of unease from being called “sis.”

I’m rarely called “sis.” Salesgirls at clothing and cosmetics stores always hit me with “little sis” like they’re experts in physiognomy and psychology or something.

That shout from Li Yongquan the other day had felt especially alien, like he wasn’t even calling out to me, Jiang Xiaohui. His girlfriend gave off the same vibe. Later, I stared at myself in the mirror and spotted two crow’s feet.

Zhu Erting said my mindset was totally normal. Young people these days were in their twenties and still thought of themselves as kids, forever stuck at eighteen without ever growing up—like life was on pause until the moment they had a kid, then bam, progress bar connects right back up.

Truth be told, I always had this illusion that I was still twenty. Even when Zhu Erting and the other intern teachers briefly called me “sis” for a couple days later on, it didn’t shatter that illusion. But these past two days, age felt like a tight headband curse clamped onto my skull. At twenty-seven, I was starting to get a little anxious. That night, I slapped on an extra face mask and lay flat on the bed like a corpse.

Thump thump thump—the sounds came from outside. I figured it was from upstairs and kept my eyes shut. The essence from the mask kept sliding along the lines of my face toward my temples. I used both hands to pinch it back, crumpling the mask in the process.

Thump thump thump—it grew more urgent, like drums building to a climax or an orchestra hitting a massive crescendo, blending into a near-thunderous roar—

I finally sat up, realizing this might be someone knocking on my door.

By the time I lunged to the door, I heard a voice: “Jiang Xiaohui!”

Gan Ling?

I called back from behind the door, “What do you want?” My hand gripped the knob without turning it. Anxiously, I even covered the peephole—like I was afraid she’d somehow drill through it and strangle me.

The essence from the mask dripped down my neck, mixing with the sweat from my fright and streaming downward gleefully.

What was Gan Ling doing here? I glanced at the time—eight-twenty when I put on the mask. It was fully dark outside, like blue-black ink spilled on cellophane, with just a faint lingering light. This was the beginning of a summer night, when mosquitoes started buzzing around in search of prey. In the village, folks chatting outside would be packing up their stools to head home right about now.

Last time Gan Ling had a fever, I’d brought her water and medicine without expecting any thanks—but I did feel a bit smug about it, figuring some good karma was due. No matter how overboard she got, she wouldn’t go as nuts as before.

Turned out, this woman was nuts, alright. Coming to pound on my door at night proved it.

No sound from outside. I repeated through the door crack, “What?!”

“Let me show you something.”

Gan Ling said.

After hesitating a bunch, I finally opened the door. Gan Ling had an extra Jiaxing Supermarket plastic bag in hand, with a power bank inside.

She already reeked. I had no doubt that wandering around in such a thick hoodie during the peak of summer would make anyone sweat buckets—especially without changing clothes for days. Yet her hair was still dry, tied back neatly, a lot tidier than when we’d first met.

Our eyes met. Gan Ling’s gaze was still cold and indifferent. She stared at me for a moment before slowly reaching into the bag, fishing out the power bank and plugging it into her phone. I eyed the phone, which looked like it was about to snap in half at the middle, then her brute-force grip. I seriously wondered if she’d crush it any second.

Once plugged in, the phone screen lit up. Gan Ling hit the power button. The boot screen went black, then a progress bar started crawling along slowly.

Gan Ling and I stood awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for the phone to boot.

We waited a while, but it still wasn’t on—just a tiny sliver left on the progress bar.

“You could’ve turned on the phone before coming to knock.”

“Drains battery.”

We waited some more until the screen finally shifted from black to color, prompting for her password. Gan Ling didn’t bother hiding it from me as her fingers tapped away—but thanks to the spiderweb of cracks on the screen, she only managed two digits.

Her strength didn’t let up. Her index finger hooked and jabbed viciously at the delete key.

The phone felt like the forehead of some unruly kid, getting poked full of holes by Gan Ling. Even I started getting a headache.

“You get it booted up first. I’m gonna go wash my face.”

The sweat had soaked the mask on my face, making it sag nonstop. Luckily it was plain white and didn’t look too horrifying. I pressed one corner with my pinky, not waiting for Gan Ling to respond before heading to the bathroom. I peeled off the mask and splashed my face with water.

No footsteps followed behind me.

I hadn’t closed the door and had even stepped aside. A shameless type like Gan Ling—who slashed tires and slurped up others’ soup—should’ve barged right in. There was air conditioning, water, and a sofa inside.

But she just stood at the threshold, fiddling until the phone finally turned on.

“Alright, come take a look.” Gan Ling raised her hand to beckon me over. I wiped my face with my rabbit towel and walked back. Eyes lowered, she jabbed open the photo album.

“Look at what?”

“Look at the faces. Start from this one and swipe right. Keep going—see if you recognize anyone.” Gan Ling flipped the phone around and handed it to me. On the screen was the face of a middle-aged man wearing a yellow tank top, crossing the street with a chain around his ankle.

I was a little puzzled and squinted closely, but the cracks ran right across the man’s face. I instinctively tried to zoom in, and the phone froze.

Gan Ling decisively reached over and swiped with her finger. “Next one.”

Her fingers were marred with bloodstains and scars, knuckles somewhat twisted. I followed her hand upward to the greasy sleeves and sweat-stained, filthy collar. Hesitating, I offered her the towel.

“Wipe off.”

Gan Ling just clutched the phone. Her eyes flicked sideways, spotted the rabbit towel, and let out a snort. She didn’t take it.

The phone finally responded—zooming in rapidly before snapping to the next photo in an instant. I looked down: a man squatting on a tricycle, fondling a watermelon. The edges of the photo were blackened; it looked like it’d been taken from way across the street in the corner, zoomed in several times.

Gan Ling swiped to the next.

I asked what this was all about.

Gan Ling said, “People say killers are usually in their twenties or thirties when they murder. Seven years have passed, so I went looking from thirty to mid-forties—fifties works too. Wandered the streets snapping pics. Take a look—see if the killer’s among them.”

Neng County had three hundred thousand people, more than half men. Was Gan Ling photographing them one by one? This woman was insane!

That poor little phone had already been abused to its limits and couldn’t handle the workload anymore—it was scorching hot, like a hand warmer. I pushed it back to her.

Gan Ling was truly unhinged. If I didn’t say anything, she’d keep hunting on her own, determined to plow through every eligible man in Neng County like tilling soil, documenting them all with her busted phone and screening through them—like conducting a miniature census.

Keep in mind, this woman hadn’t even splurged on a four-yuan bowl of noodles these past days. She hadn’t changed her clothes. She scrimped on every percent of battery—to pull off something this massive.

All I had to do was open my mouth, and her efforts would consolidate from zero to hero, weeding out the chaff to leave only the essentials. Just one final step.

But I couldn’t.

The killer had already been brought to justice by the law. Sure, in my eyes, the sentence was too light—but the law was the law. Why hadn’t Gan Ling appealed sooner or shouted about the injustice back then? Now everything was dust to dust, ashes to ashes, all settled in black and white. What she was doing… wasn’t that just hunting for revenge? Murder?

How could I say anything? How could I plant the seeds for such a tragedy? No matter what she said, that incident was in the past. Every clue ended on my tongue—I couldn’t utter a single word.

I just twisted the towel in my hands and hung it up. “I can’t make them out. I’ve kinda forgotten.”

Gan Ling kept battling the phone relentlessly, rubbing at it for ages before finally shutting off the screen stone-faced. She yanked out the power bank cord with a snap, scratched at her hair, and shot me another cold look.

With the door still open, I finally gave in. “Either come inside to talk, or I’m closing the door.”

Gan Ling took a step forward. As I moved to shut it, she said, “Don’t close it.”

“Bad if the neighbors see.” I grabbed the handle to push, but Gan Ling said flatly, without a ripple, “Alone in a room with a stranger. Door closed, I kill you, and no one knows.”

Was that a threat?

I froze gripping the door. Gan Ling calmly pulled a utility knife from her pocket and flicked out the blade with clicks—shiny and pointed right at me.

I calmly shut the door anyway and leaned against it. “You won’t kill me. If you do, no one will know what the killer looks like.”

Gan Ling laughed. “I knew you remembered what the murderer looks like.”

Cold sweat trickled down my back. I rubbed my temples, listening to the clicking sounds of the blade retracting. No wonder Gan Ling dared to sleep on the street—she was always ready to fight someone to the death.

This person was crazy. Not the dazed kind of crazy, but clear-headed and paranoid crazy. I thought, if a long time passed—a month, half a year, or even over a year—and she still couldn’t find the murderer, would she take it out on me and plunge that utility knife into my heart?

I didn’t pursue that line of thought. I grabbed a loose black T-shirt and tossed it to Gan Ling. “It’s hot out. My place doesn’t have any Huoxiang Zhengqi Water. Don’t get heatstroke.”

Gan Ling didn’t catch it. The shirt landed on the sofa backrest. She lowered her head to stare at the rabbit pattern on the T-shirt, then calmly looked at me.

“I’m not a beggar, Teacher Xiao Jiang… I just want to find the murderer.”

“You’re carrying a knife. You want to kill him.”

“Mm.” Gan Ling admitted it, even smiling faintly.

“Searching like this won’t get you anywhere. Go ahead and look. I won’t tell you.”

“You don’t have to say anything, but I’ll make you look. When you see a familiar face, your eyes will give it away, and that’s how I’ll confirm it. I’ll snap a batch of photos and come find you every time.” Gan Ling calmly laid out her plan to me.

Yes, I couldn’t hide it in my eyes. I couldn’t control it. Even if it was like fishing a needle from the sea, or if one day on Gan Ling’s phone I spotted the murderer in an instant, and Gan Ling noticed—even if I flipped past quickly—she could narrow the search in a flash.

I recalled how, back at the noodle shop, this person had tricked me with that one call of “Teacher Xiao Jiang.”

“I’ll close my eyes. I won’t tell you a thing.” I snatched the T-shirt away.

Gan Ling laughed again. “You’ve already told me.”

“What?”

“The murderer got seven years. You wouldn’t not know that. The time hasn’t come up yet. I wasn’t fully sure at first that the murderer had gotten out early, but your reaction just confirmed it for me—he’s out.”

This woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Only the corners of her mouth twitched, while those eyes remained exceptionally cold and stern, like a mother wolf crouching in the grass.

Right. I had no idea how much this woman already knew. I’d been played.

I could only blurt out in panic, “What? Got out early?”

“Children’s theater-level acting. I’m out.” Gan Ling pulled open the door and left. I was about to chase after her when a utility knife gleaming with icy chill pressed against my throat, forcing me back inside.

The door slammed shut.