Chapter 6

Someone called me Teacher Xiao Jiang, so I turned around.

Sometimes occupational habits run deep. If a kid called me Teacher Xiao Jiang from behind me and I didn’t turn around, it would definitely be because I hadn’t heard them. Before twenty, I was always pretty hard of hearing—like severe nearsightedness, unable to make out words without clearly seeing someone’s mouth shape. So whenever people called my name from behind, my mind would wander off into the void, as if I weren’t Jiang Xiaohui at all.

After I started working at the kindergarten, this bad habit of mine was cured. The kids called my name one after another, like waves pushing boats of different colors into my harbor. I could accurately tell who was who and respond to each one, avoiding any kid getting too shy to speak up after I missed their call and ending up wetting their pants.

So even though I knew that “Teacher Xiao Jiang” definitely didn’t come from a kid, before my rationality could give the order, my neck and shoulders twisted around on their own.

With the woman facing me without moving a muscle, I quickly walked to the table in a stroke of genius, grabbed two napkin tissues, calmly wiped my mouth, and left.

It was as if I’d suddenly turned not because I’d heard “Teacher Xiao Jiang,” but because I’d noticed grease on my lips.

My brain hadn’t moved, but my body went first. I’d never imagined I possessed such calm composure. Only after turning back around and walking out did I break out in a cold sweat.

Without acting skills or scheming, I’d be unable to stop myself from glancing at that woman. Then her gaze would hook me like a barb, reeling me in to flop around on shore with my belly up, ready to be slaughtered.

After walking out, I sped up as much as I could but didn’t dare look back, afraid that if I did, I’d see that woman’s silent face.

Had she called out because she’d already figured something out? Was she deliberately testing me? Should I even go home?

But I had to go home. I had no other friends in Neng County. Zhu Erting was wrapped up in lovey-dovey bliss with her boyfriend, the Principal had a useless husband to take care of—I couldn’t disturb anyone, and I had no spare cash for a hotel. I could only go back to my home.

I believed that no matter how brute-strong this woman was, she wasn’t a jack turned spirit. She couldn’t pry open my security door or pry out my secrets. If she forced her way in or made a huge racket, I’d call security to drag her away and give her a stern warning. It’d be even better if she broke my door—I’d call the cops, get her hauled off for burglary. I’d lose a door but gain years of peace.

But deep down, I knew a massive question was fermenting in my stomach like bloating gas. I wanted to know who this woman was, how she connected to my secret, why she’d tracked me down—the method didn’t matter. What did she want to know? Who was she?

But I clamped my palm hard over my stomach. When I got home and lifted my shirt, I saw I’d gone too hard on myself; there was already a bruise on my belly. With this painful lesson, I warned myself to kill that unnecessary curiosity. Don’t look back, don’t lift the curtains again, prepare the emergency call, end it once and for all, then I could go back to work.

But I still wanted to know if the woman had followed. I needed to confirm if I could sleep safely, so I lifted the curtain again.

This time, I really should have learned my lesson and turned off the lights! But my address was already exposed; lights on or off didn’t matter. I couldn’t prove I wasn’t home by turning them off—the curtain gaps would leak light, exposing me. My guilt was impossible to hide.

So I just stood at the window like that, watching for nearly twenty minutes, until I saw that woman appear at the neighborhood entrance.

She walked in calmly, looked up and scanned our building’s Block 2, counted a bit, and spotted me.

Sure enough, she strode right in. With the window open, I ducked down, grabbed a piece of colored cardstock, scribbled hastily: Who are you?

I flung open the door lightning-fast, left it on the doormat, then locked up tight. This time, I had my shoes on and didn’t hide the noise.

Separated by a door, I was a bit more prepared than last time. My phone was already loaded with the emergency call; if the woman made any rash move, I’d hit dial and hold the fort behind my sturdy door until the sirens wailed.

When the footsteps approached, I was a tad calmer than before.

I’d managed to feign calm at the noodle shop by grabbing those napkins, so I told myself I had plenty of cool-headed reserves to draw on. I pressed tight against the door but stayed away from the peephole.

After a moment, I heard a voice.

“I’m Gan Ling.”

People from Neng County don’t distinguish front and back nasal sounds. I didn’t realize it was a name at first, thought it was “sweet rain” or something weird, and kept listening. The woman said, “I know. You’re Teacher Xiao Jiang from Plum Kindergarten.”

I didn’t answer. Asking for her identity meant I’d already tacitly admitted mine; I couldn’t hide it. If this woman was even halfway normal, she’d just ask around this floor and the neighbors would point to my door.

We’d crossed paths at the noodle shop; I knew I couldn’t hide.

The woman said again, “Zheng Ningning is dead.”

“I’m just asking you— the murderer, how’d he only get seven years?”

Her voice was muffled through the door, but the meaning was clear: she wanted justice. The one who deliberately killed someone—a seven-year-old kid—how’d he only get seven years?

I didn’t know. I wasn’t a judge, cop, or lawyer. I was nothing but a witness. I’d sworn everything I said was true, then recounted every detail I remembered. That day I’d been parched like mad but couldn’t swallow a drop; now one question from this woman dried my throat again, leaving me speechless.

Right, the killer got seven years, and rumor had it he’d been a model prisoner and released early.

I’m no champion of justice. The woman was asking something I couldn’t answer.

Suddenly, the woman started pounding the door furiously. Boom—a slam came, like she’d rammed her shoulder into it. The force transmitted through to me; I stumbled, scalp tingling as I pulled out my phone to dial.

Then a shout from outside: “Gone crazy? Who the hell is this!”

A neighbor.

I stayed silent. The woman’s voice suddenly rose: “Teacher Xiao Jiang! I’m done asking! Just one question—I want to ask you, who killed my daughter? Who killed Zheng Ningning!”

Your daughter? Zheng Ningning?

I suddenly flipped open the peephole cover and looked out. The woman was staring straight at it, like she was staring into my eyes. The moment I opened it, I saw her teardrop-shaped head aimed right at me.

But I wasn’t scared. I didn’t speak either, just lowered my head and called property management, telling them a lunatic was at my door and to get security to drag her away.

Things blew up big. Security came, but the woman wouldn’t leave. She struggled and scratched; she didn’t talk much in front of others, lips pursed as she flailed her arms wildly, not letting anyone touch her. She had some ruthless strength too—scratched up two security guards’ faces.

Neighbors came out to help security pin her down, but someone had already called the cops. When police arrived, the woman was shoved against the wall, glaring at the safety exit sign and blindly kicking it twice more, trying to leverage free.

“Who called the cops?” With the police there, several men cuffed her up together. Even if she was iron and steel, she was broken now.

After the cops bustled around, one came knocking at my door: “You too, come on down.”

I’d been watching the chaos from inside without stepping out. As the instigator of this mess hiding in the back, I was despicable. But I was really scared, trembling as I went out. The woman suddenly spat: “You still call yourself a teacher? What are you afraid of? What do you have to feel guilty about!”

She’d barely asked when a cop barked: “Shut it!”

With the shout came a crack—the safety exit sign she’d stomped shattered with a pop, splitting into two cracks. Security fumed, but police blocked her with their bodies and beckoned me over.

Under everyone’s eyes, I got into the squad car, feeling my half-eaten noodles surging up with stomach pain.

The police took me and the woman to an empty room. She was cuffed beside me, sitting quietly now; even if she swung her arms, she couldn’t reach. Still, I scooted further away.

A female cop chatted with me: “What’s the deal? The day before yesterday or the one before, someone called saying this woman’s got mental issues, scaring kids outside Bright Kindergarten. Now it’s you.”

“I’m a preschool teacher at Bright Kindergarten,” I explained, looking a bit pale.

The female cop went “oh”: “So what’s the dispute? She looks pretty normal to me. Calling her crazy… she is a bit extreme, huh?”

Facing police, that case from seven years ago wasn’t easy to talk about, but I remembered these weren’t the ones who’d handled it back then. There was another woman nearby too; I spoke guardedly.

“Bright Kindergarten used to be called Plum Kindergarten. I was a teacher there then. I had a student named Zheng Ningning, who was hacked to death seven years ago.”

The female cop raised an eyebrow: “Oh, and then?”

“I was an eyewitness witness. I testified in court that the killer did it… Then the killer went to jail, the kid was buried… That’s it. It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, so what about this woman?”

“She says she’s Zheng Ningning’s mother.”

“So? What’s the problem?”

“The problem is… Officer, I’ve never met Zheng Ningning’s mother. From what I know—Zheng Ningning’s mother died long ago. Zheng Ningning only had her grandma at home; it was said her parents were both gone, leaving just the old lady…”

The woman suddenly lifted her foot to kick my stool. I stood up immediately, and the female officer shouted, “What are you doing? What are you doing! Are you crazy? Did I ask you anything? If you keep this up, I’ll drag you out alone!”

She froze, like someone had hit pause, retracted her leg, and sat back down properly.

Her face was calm, but her eyes grew even darker. She lowered her head, her messy hair falling loosely, slouched over, and said nothing.

Only then did the female officer’s expression soften. The male officer, who hadn’t spoken until now, asked, “Now you talk. Who are you? Why are you harassing her?”

The woman said, “I’m Zheng Ningning’s real mom.”

The room fell quiet. I recalled that photo in the rain and suddenly thought, maybe this woman really is Zheng Ningning’s mom and not just crazy? Maybe I’d just panicked.

In the silence, the woman forced out a cold sneer. She looked at the three of us mockingly, despising us equally: “How do I prove it? Open the kid’s coffin for a DNA test?”

The female officer said, “That’s still no reason to harass people. What does Zheng Ningning’s case have to do with this witness? It’s been seven years— even a mom settling scores can’t wait this long. The killer’s already in custody. If you’re unhappy with the verdict, what were you waiting for?”

The woman said nothing more, just stared at the table in front of her.

The police took notes, gave her a talking-to, and released me and the woman one after the other.

That’s how I learned her name was Gan Ling.

I asked if they could give me a ride home in the police car—I was really scared. The female officer understood and agreed. As I started to follow her, Gan Ling muttered to herself, “I’ll follow you.”

The female officer didn’t hear and kept walking ahead. I looked back; Gan Ling was staring at me expressionless, her lips moving as if mumbling something.