Chapter 23

Peeling it open, rows of plump corn kernels clustered together, brimming with juice. I picked one up with long chopsticks and placed it on the steamer to cool. The fragrance of the corn husks filled the entire kitchen.

It was a day off, so I set a box of milk on the table. Once the corn had cooled enough, I broke off two sections and started munching on them, holding them by the ends. A parent private-messaged me, asking what the kids had eaten at kindergarten yesterday—why did her child come home starving like they hadn’t had a snack? I started explaining, typing away furiously, but she still reminded me that her kid had a big appetite and got hungry easily, so to give extra snack crackers, maybe two more pieces.

I didn’t have the heart to say her kid was already pretty chubby and needed to cut back on sweets. I just replied, “Mm-hmm, got it.”

At nine in the morning, I hopped on my bike and headed toward the bungalows on the east side of Neng County.

My unexpected run-in with Gan Ling last week had thrown off my plans. I’d seen Zheng Ningning in the cemetery mound but hadn’t found the child’s grandma—and honestly, I didn’t even know the grandma’s name. So I decided to go back to that house and ask around.

After parting ways with Gan Ling that day, I stared at the corncob for ages, my mind swirling with countless theories that I shot down one by one. I was tempted to hurl the damn thing out the window like a corn cannon from Plants vs. Zombies, blasting zombies like Gan Ling. Instead, I shut the window, tossed the corn into the pot, and avoided becoming that idiot who chucks stuff from high places.

Zheng Ningning’s grandma’s house was at the easternmost end of the east-side bungalows, beyond where the cement road reached—a rundown red-brick house standing alone in the middle of some fields. The iron-sheet gate still had couplets from who-knows-how-many years ago hanging on it. Fields flanked the dirt path on both sides, with irrigation ditches alongside; water flowed merrily, pouring itself unreservedly into the farmland.

I rode through the middle like performing circus tricks on a tightrope, my butt bouncing once, then jolting again, before finally reaching the iron gate. The gate was raised three bricks high, enough to glimpse shoes and pant legs inside. I squatted down and peered in—the junk seemed to have been cleared out, and the yard floor was dry and clean.

I was still craning my butt backward to look when a passing farmer suddenly barked, “What’re you doing!”

I said I was there to visit Zheng Ningning’s grandma.

He shouted back, “Who the hell are you!”

I fumbled to explain why a kindergarten teacher with no blood ties would come visit Zheng Ningning’s grandma.

Thinking it over, I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes the ins and outs are too tangled to explain quickly, so I just shut up.

From my position, I really had no good reason to investigate whether anyone had come here, or who had handled the old lady’s burial.

I clamped my mouth shut and decided to turn back. But then another farmer from a nearby place showed up. She took one look and chimed in, “Hey, you’re that one—you’re back again?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The old lady passed—you didn’t know? She’s gone. Last month, the daughter-in-law came back, bought a coffin, and sent her off.”

Her dialect meant the old lady’s daughter-in-law had bought a coffin and buried her.

I asked, “The daughter-in-law came back last month?”

“Yeah, she did. Didn’t take a thing—just borrowed my shovel, smashed the lock, went in, and saw the old lady was dead. No idea how she knew. Tsk tsk.”

The first farmer seemed lost in the conversation, still clueless about who I was, but since the second one was chatting with me, his guard dropped, and he jumped in: “Poor old lady. Her son was unfilial, ran off. Daughter-in-law ditched too. Raised a kid alone, kid died, now she’s gone too.”

“Who owns the house now?”

“Who owns it…” That stumped both farmers. The second one, who seemed to know all the gossip, explained, “It was rented from someone anyway. Gotta go back to the landlord.”

They went on muttering about the old lady’s daily life—once she’s dead, it’s all good words: honest, hardworking, pitiable, all complimentary stuff. Then the first guy turned on the radio clipped to his waist, and a story from Ghost Blows Out the Light started playing over the fields. I left pretty quick.

I circled around a few middle schools in Neng County on my bike. Compared to Gan Ling, I looked more like some creepy lurker staking out kids. After looping, I realized it was a day off—no non-boarders would be there. Circling back, my electric bike’s battery hit the red zone. I pedaled and coasted, finally dragging it home to charge downstairs. After a whole morning of pointless running around, I was more drained than the bike. I slumped in the shade for a bit. The plastic windshield on the bike had cracked like a spiderweb; sunlight pierced through, pooling in my palm like golden spring water.

I’d burned a morning chasing ghosts to those ruins—and found nothing but one lead: Gan Ling had smashed the lock with a shovel, handled the old lady’s burial, taken Zheng Ningning’s portrait, and quietly moved it to the wasteland.

In the afternoon, I went to the wasteland. Seeing those adobe houses, they felt even more squat, fused to the earth.

Wednesday’s rain had half-melted one collapsed house like melting chocolate spreading across the ground. The remaining half stood silently, head bowed. Wind whistled through the eaves; the beams were so dry they’d ignite at a spark. Broken tiles clung like half-scraped fish scales.

Gan Ling might not be here—maybe snapping photos of strange men on the street, or staking out other spots she thought had leads. I parked outside, yanked open the flimsy lock, and went in. The clay stove still worked; the grass Gan Ling had cut last time was dry enough to burn. I gathered some twigs and scraps of wood.

I tucked Zheng Ningning’s portrait face-down on the cabinet, lit a fire for water, used peeled willow branches as a makeshift steamer in the pot, and heated the cooked corncobs over low flame. I’d bought three steamed buns on the way and tossed them in with the plastic bag.

All pre-cooked stuff—low fire simmering slow. Lid on, stove door shut; even after the flames died, the hot ashes would keep it warm.

The next morning, Gan Ling knocked on my door. I opened it, and she blurted, “You’re the snail girl?”

I said, “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you? Come in.”

My attitude had flipped to pleasant, like I’d been on the defensive before but now some master had shown me the ropes, and I was countering her moves. Gan Ling wasn’t fazed—arrogant glare, icy words—and strode right in. Suddenly eager, I said, “Water?”

Gan Ling finally sensed something off. She grabbed my T-shirt, pinning me in place, scanning me up and down. Then she warily shoved open the bathroom door, the bedroom door—checking no one’s hiding to jump out. I was hauled around my own place like heavy luggage until she’d inspected everywhere.

My crewneck T-shirt was yanked into a V-neck, loose enough my shoulders might slip out anytime. I kept tugging it back up. Standing face-to-face all proper, I had no idea how to explain.

Gan Ling said, “Why’d you give me stuff?”

“You gave me corn, didn’t you? Just returning the favor. Can’t take things for free.”

“Spit it out.”

Gan Ling threw a straight punch; I had no fancy deflections, so I blurted, “Did you go looking for… those kids?”

“No.”

I let out a breath. Gan Ling hadn’t gone that far off the deep end.

My personality’s as steady and balanced as my name suggests. If Gan Ling wants to smash my windows, prying about the killer, I won’t tell her. But if she’s burning my house down to intimidate innocent kids, I can sit down and negotiate window-smashing.

Hearing her say she hadn’t gone after the kids, I grabbed the eye drops, sat on the sofa with legs together, ready for a long haul: “Let me see the photos.”

I’d started fishing for a needle in the ocean, while Gan Ling was casting nets elsewhere.

She didn’t refuse, handing over her phone. I dripped in eye drops and started swiping fast and furious, eyes locked ahead. Gan Ling paused it now and then, afraid I’d skim too quick, spot-checking. But I was dead serious. After a few interruptions, she saw my eyes turning red from staring so hard and stopped messing with me.

At first I counted, marking a line in my notebook every two hundred pics, telling Gan Ling to organize and explain her own background properly. Later, my head throbbed, I lost count—the notebook marks tangled into a mess. Three rounds of eye drops, and finally things blurred. I leaned on the sofa, phone in hand, rubbing my brow.

Gan Ling asked knowingly, “Still nothing?”

“Nope. Battery’s dead. I’ll charge it.”

I took the phone to the bedroom, mumbling awkwardly about the data cable. The instant I was inside, I locked the door, checked her call logs—no familiar numbers! Pulled up the map history: sparse, probably a new phone, just a few small shops. Gan Ling realized what I was doing—I was barricaded against the door, invading her privacy, digging into secrets she wouldn’t share, payback for her snooping my album.

Bang—the bedroom door was flimsier than the front one. Her knock shook my bones.

The map history was slim. I quickly backed out, still braced against the door as Gan Ling kicked it hard several times from the other side.

I had no doubt that if Gan Ling went to the kitchen, grabbed a kitchen knife, hacked the door to pieces, and stuck her head in, I would be scared out of my wits and lose all will to resist. I was already prepared to drop to my knees at any moment, but I wanted information.

The photo album—the one full of photos of those killers Gan Ling wanted me to see. In a single day, I’d browsed through so many men from Neng County, like taking part in hundreds of episodes of If You Are the One overnight, women picking men. I immediately backed out, hesitated for a moment, but still opened WeChat.

The WeChat chats page had tons of groups with Do Not Disturb enabled, plenty of @everyone messages glowing faintly red. Pinned at the top was a contact whose name was still just a string of default system characters—clearly never changed—with the last message being a “Hey.”

I tapped in, and it was all voice calls and voice messages. That “Hey” was from Gan Ling, sitting there all alone. The timestamp showed April… I hadn’t even made out the date when Gan Ling suddenly bellowed, “Jiang Xiaohui—”

My fingers jerked, and the phone slipped away like an eel. Terrified it would shatter, I stumbled a few steps and barely caught it with my elbow.

Gan Ling stopped knocking and just yelled, “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you! Stop scrolling!”

“Really?” I gripped the phone, wanting to keep going, but it had already gone dark.

“If you don’t come out, I’ll kill you,” Gan Ling finally threatened me.

“Then kill me.” Through that thin bedroom door, I had no idea where I got the nerve to provoke Gan Ling.

Gan Ling, fuming: “Why you—”

She seemed to choke on her words, falling silent for a long time, her fingers brushing the door with a faint tap.

“Jiang Xiaohui, why do you care so much? You’re just a kindergarten teacher. If it’s gonna rain, it’ll rain; if the killer wants to kill, they’ll kill. Can you stop it? You really think you can? You couldn’t stop the killer from killing—so why do you think you can stop me?”

“Because if you kill and I told you, then I’m an accomplice,” I said, pulling out Lu Jinshi’s warning.

“Don’t you want to kill that killer?” Gan Ling asked me.

—-

“The Chinese temperament always likes compromise and moderation. For example, if you say this room is too dark and needs a window here, everyone will certainly not allow it. But if you propose tearing off the roof, they will compromise and agree to open the window.” —Lu Xun