Gan Ling swiftly landed a job at Jiaxing Supermarket and even brought employee benefits home that very night.
Out of my sight, Gan Ling was always incredibly efficient in handling things. She bustled day and night, her under-eye circles growing darker, making her face look grim like Shiji Niangniang. She hooked a chair over with her toe and sat steadily across from me, arms crossed. “Mind your own business.”
“But she confided in me… She even asked me…”
“So, do you support her? Juggling two at once?”
I hesitated for a long time before giving a tiny shake of my head.
“See?” Gan Ling said, lifting her chin to signal I should figure it out myself.
I pondered for a moment. “You mean, her confiding in me was just so she could hear me support her?”
“Exactly.”
I got it, but Zhu Erting was my friend. I racked my brain, citing examples from history and reflecting on the past to convince myself, hoping to offer at least some support for her stance in front of Zhu Erting.
Gan Ling didn’t give me time to overthink. She planted a foot on my bed frame. “Let me ask you directly—when are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“The killer.”
“I’ll tell you… once I…” I pulled back the timeline like a tape measure, unsure where to stop, when Gan Ling interrupted through gritted teeth. “Yeah, wait till the end of time and keep it bottled up forever!”
“No… I…” I didn’t know how to explain it to Gan Ling either.
“This month?” Gan Ling negotiated like she was bargaining. Seeing me shake my head, she gave some leeway. “Fine, next month then?”
“Next year…” I tested the waters, glancing at her. The woman shot to her feet. I clutched my head and curled up on the bed as she yanked the blanket over me, smothering me inside.
“Stay under there then. Come January next year, if you don’t spill, I’ll kill you.” Gan Ling’s finger poked my face through the blanket, the pressure lightening. I was wrapped up airtight and couldn’t speak. She yanked it open again. “Sign and seal it. You better mean it.”
“I do, I do, I swear.” Before next year, to truly believe Gan Ling wouldn’t go through with murder, I needed to learn more—about Gan Ling, about Zheng Ningning, about all sorts of things concerning their family.
Gan Ling released her grip. “Good. Say it again. I’m recording.”
I was forced to speak into the phone. “I, Jiang Xiaohui, will definitely tell Gan Ling who the killer is by January 2023.”
Satisfied, she saved it. “Then I won’t disturb you… until January next year…”
Hey? I hurriedly said, “So you won’t come see me at all this year?”
She’d been sticking to me like glue before, but now a verbal promise and she was giving me half a year of freedom? What if I skipped town!
Gan Ling looked a bit surprised. She bundled up the blanket and shoved it under my feet. “Get up already. You’ll sleep yourself into paralysis.”
“Inverted sentence… You’re from Shandong?” I seized the chance to fish for info. Gan Ling clamped a hand under my arm and dragged me off the bed like a dead dog.
“Nope! None of your business. Butt out.”
“You’re really okay letting me go? What if I run off…”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t come.”
Gan Ling seemed a little tired. After shooing me from the bed to the chair, she sat on the edge of my bed herself. She ran her fingers through her hair a few times, glanced at me, hesitated, combed again, looked once more—repeating it three or four times. I started feeling uneasy. “You said you wouldn’t disturb me…”
“Are you sick or something?”
I shut up. At first, I’d dodged Gan Ling and begged her not to come find me. Now it was like I’d caught Stockholm syndrome, pleading for her to visit—but of course I was. Otherwise, she’d harass others behind my back, flip-flop and decide to kill again. What could I do? But I wouldn’t tell her about the killer for the next half year either. What right did she have to keep coming around?
Ah.
So I said, “How about… how about I come find you instead?”
If the mountain won’t come to me, I’ll go to the mountain.
Gan Ling ruffled her hair even harder. Those gray strands looked like patterned fabric, wrinkled and reshaped multiple times, left dangling from her tug.
Finally, Gan Ling said, “You really… whatever. Do what you want.”
“Okay, so you’ll still be in Neng County?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Gan Ling shot me one last helpless eyeroll. Even after getting my recorded promise, she looked like the loser. She left dragging heavy, drooping footsteps, the door click extra soft. Peeking out the window, I saw a woman weighed down by worries leaving the complex. I rubbed the glass with a squeak-squeak to sound-track her, like she was stomping in kids’ light-up shoes.
For a while, kids got obsessed with those shoes that lit up and squeaked with every step.
Back when I was at Plum Kindergarten, one girl and two boys in my class had those sneakers. The soles flashed with light, and some even made noise when running. In class, they couldn’t hide their excitement, endlessly stomping stools and ducking under desks to watch—one stomp, lights flash. Kids’ faces lit up. By the second week, more kids wore them; the trend spread fast. But those shoes broke easily, and soon enough, they all dimmed like clockwork. The fad fizzled out.
This spring, Bright Kindergarten caught the trend too. Yihan led the fashion charge with light-up shoes, hers even fancier—with a trigger on the sole that played “Let It Go.”
That stuff boomed in my childhood and was still going strong. My elementary school deskmate had black light-up sneakers that drew my eyes. My feet in Grandma’s homemade black cloth shoes curled up, dimmed by the glow.
I’d hide my envy at school and empty it out with my backpack at home.
Be grateful for what we have and unaffected by externals—that was our family principle. Contentment is key; I knew it was good.
Our family was born with immunity to consumerism.
We managed an orchard bursting with plump apricots. Good harvests netted fifty thousand a year—a huge sum. But my parents saved the money, then inexplicably lent it out interest-free. They were good people; the borrowing uncles and aunts were good too. Even if they couldn’t repay sometimes, they fretted over our orchard and shared their best with us.
We were blessed by God. Apricots on the trees were huge and juicy, fist-sized ones tumbling into baskets without bruising, none ever wormy. I never lacked. Born amid fragrant fennel scents, I’d never been to a hospital or clothing store. Hand-me-downs from girls came our way; Grandma mended clothes. Food never ran short. I never lingered outside class, agonizing over how to tell the teacher I couldn’t pay fees.
Those squeaky shoes were always from another world—one without God’s grace, filling inner voids with cheap lights. Until I realized my world was full of squeaks too. God gone, my good parents dead because they wouldn’t lend three thousand to a man. He believed in God too, yet devil-possessed, he rear-ended their car in revenge.
Everyone said he must’ve been possessed by a ghost.
I didn’t buy it. I ditched theology and confronted God.
Why would God’s people kill over three grand? Why did they serve Him faithfully for twenty-plus years, only for this?
The debate lasted three months. I axed the cross on the grave. No more God.
Injustice, hatred—I understood Gan Ling’s mood intensely. If she was the cold blade craving blood, I was the sheath. I felt her chill first, but mine was to stop her drawing, to keep her clean. Once unsheathed, no going back.
Truth was, I always wanted to tell her who the killer was, let her have vengeance. So I kept repeating I couldn’t. Reminder to self: don’t become someone I don’t recognize. Staying true to yourself is damn hard.
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Next Part: Gan Ling
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