Yin Wuwang looked at him.
Little Lu instinctively shrank back under that gaze, but the gravitational pull of gossip outweighed his reverence for a superior officer, and he pressed on:
"You used to bring him coffee—then you switched to water, right? That was after Dr. Shen mentioned he didn't like coffee. At lunch, you used to ask if he wanted to go to the cafeteria together. Now you just order two portions of delivery without asking. Yesterday in the corridor, you walked on his left side, because the left side is next to the windows where there's a cross-draft—"
"Little Lu." Yin Wuwang cut him off.
"Present!" Little Lu reflexively sat up straight.
Yin Wuwang held his gaze for two seconds.
Then the corner of his mouth moved.
The smallest possible arc. It didn't qualify as a smile—more like a single muscle losing its discipline for an instant before being pulled back into line.
"Have you been short on work lately?" Yin Wuwang's tone returned to its normal, measured flatness. "Did you finish running the convenience store surveillance for He Jinsong?"
"Done! Turned it in yesterday afternoon—"
"And Xu Ruolin's travel records? The flight and hotel verification progress."
"Working on it—should have it by this afternoon—"
"Then stop gliding around over here." Yin Wuwang turned back to his screen. "Go."
Little Lu let out a heh-heh laugh and pushed off, coasting back to his workstation. Halfway there, he glanced back at Yin Wuwang—that barely-there twitch had already vanished, replaced by the composed, steady Detective Jiang.
But Little Lu had seen it.
He picked up his phone and fired off a rapid message in a group chat titled "Major Crimes Slacking Squad":
Breaking intel: Ye-ge brought Dr. Shen breakfast again today. Red date and longan congee—the stomach-warming kind. AND he remembers Dr. Shen doesn't eat cilantro. I'm telling you, their relationship has leveled up recently.
Sent.
Three seconds later, Zhou Jie replied with a single question mark.
Little Lu typed another line: Trust me. I'm a professional.
Zhou Jie responded with an eye-roll emoji.
At two in the afternoon, Zhou Jie hung up a call and stood rubbing her temples, heading for the water dispenser. The office heater droned quietly; afternoon sun through the windows carved the partition panels into neat strips of shadow.
Yin Wuwang was at his workstation compiling basic information on Kangning Psychiatric Hospital—address, accreditation level, department structure, public contact number. Little Deer Assistant had supplied some of the data; the rest he'd looked up on the computer. He'd become quite proficient with browsers by now, though he still occasionally mixed up the search bar and the URL bar.
"God, this is annoying." Zhou Jie passed Yin Wuwang's workstation with her water mug, venting under her breath.
Yin Wuwang's gaze left the screen.
Zhou Jie was the female detective in Major Crimes at the same rank as him—capable, direct, running two cases simultaneously. They didn't interact much day-to-day, but they'd exchange a few words when they crossed paths at the water station—mostly Zhou Jie talking, Yin Wuwang listening.
"What happened?" he asked.
"That case I've got—the one in the south of the city." Zhou Jie leaned against his workstation partition, professional weariness in her tone. "An elderly person living alone, found dead at home. Neighbor called it in. Forensics ruled accidental fall, but the family won't accept it. Insisting on an investigation."
"Family?"
"One nephew. The old man had no spouse, no children—this nephew is the only relative." Zhou Jie took a sip of water. "But here's the thing: the nephew hadn't contacted the old man in three years. Suddenly pops up out of nowhere demanding investigations and accountability—care to guess why?"
"Inheritance," Yin Wuwang said.
"Bingo." Zhou Jie rolled her eyes. "The old man has an apartment under his name. That's exactly what the nephew is after."
She shook her head: "I hate cases like this. Nobody cares while the person's alive. The second they're dead, everyone crawls out of the woodwork."
Yin Wuwang gave an acknowledging "mm," as though merely agreeing in passing. But his attention had snagged on a particular phrase the moment Zhou Jie said it.
No relatives.
His finger tapped the desk once, soundlessly.
Zhou Wen's hospital records—Dragon Brother had said she "lost her mind," which almost certainly meant psychiatric admission. Long-term psychiatric hospitalization required a legal guardian to act as guarantor. But what if Zhou Wen's household registration listed no immediate family?
No spouse. No children. If even her parents were deceased or out of contact—then who was serving as her guardian-guarantor?
Chen Wan couldn't do it. His own identity was collateralized under Dragon Brother's debt; legally, he didn't have the standing to guarantee anyone.
Which left only one possibility—a person with a familial connection to Zhou Wen who didn't appear on her household registration. A hidden relative. Someone with zero official link to Zhou Wen on paper, yet willing in practice to assume legal guardianship responsibility for her.
Yin Wuwang pushed back his chair and stood abruptly.
Zhou Jie startled: "What's gotten into you?"
"Thanks." Yin Wuwang gave her a nod, grabbed the notebook from his desk, and strode toward the forensic examiner's office.
Zhou Jie stood there with her mug, glanced at Little Lu. Little Lu, equally baffled, shook his head.
Yin Wuwang pushed open the forensic office door. Xie Qingyan was leafing through a stack of evidence inventories from the Chen Wan case.
"Fuguang." Yin Wuwang pulled the door shut—confirming no one was in the corridor before he spoke. "We haven't checked Zhou Wen's household registration yet."
Xie Qingyan set down the inventory and looked at him.
"If there are no immediate relatives listed on her registration," Yin Wuwang sat down beside the desk, "long-term psychiatric hospitalization requires a guardian-guarantor. Chen Wan doesn't qualify—he's a debtor under Dragon Brother. His financial and legal standing don't allow him to guarantee anyone else."
"So the guarantor is another person." Xie Qingyan picked up the thread.
"And this person has a familial relationship with Zhou Wen." Yin Wuwang flipped open his notebook and began writing down the chain of reasoning. "But they don't appear on Zhou Wen's registration—meaning they're not immediate family. Or it's some kind of relationship that wouldn't show up in standard records."
Xie Qingyan was silent for several seconds.
"Half-sibling," he said.
Yin Wuwang looked at him, notebook still raised in mid-air.
"Different surname. Not on the same household registration. But connected by blood." Xie Qingyan's pace was unhurried, as though slowly drawing a single thread from a tangled skein of yarn. "If Zhou Wen has a half-sibling—different surname—then that person wouldn't generate a direct match in a registration lookup. But legally, as a collateral blood relative, they could apply to become the guardian-guarantor."
Yin Wuwang watched him.
This line of reasoning had started from an offhand remark by Zhou Jie, passed through Yin Wuwang's assembly, and arrived at its direction through Xie Qingyan—three people, three links, like a chain building itself.
"When the warrant comes through," Yin Wuwang closed the notebook, "we go to Kangning Psychiatric Hospital and focus on two things. First: Zhou Wen's payment records. Second: her hospitalization guarantor."
"If the guarantor isn't Chen Wan," Xie Qingyan pushed the evidence inventory aside, his gaze resting on Yin Wuwang's notebook, "then it's the one person we currently know nothing about."
"But before that," Yin Wuwang stood, "we close out Xu Ruolin. Interview's this afternoon. A café in the west of the city."
He was at the door when he paused.
Not because something case-related had crossed his mind. Because he'd glanced down—and the bowl of red date and longan congee at the corner of Xie Qingyan's desk was empty.
The spoon rested clean on the lid.
Yin Wuwang pulled the door open and walked out, his expression exactly the same as when he'd walked in.
But as he passed through the office area, Little Lu caught it again—
Detective Jiang's expression was no different from usual. But Little Lu, eyes fixed on the surveillance footage on his screen, glimpsed him in his peripheral vision as he walked past—and Ye-ge's stride was just slightly lighter than normal.
Little Lu couldn't quite put his finger on what that meant. But his gossip instincts told him: Dr. Shen's congee bowl was empty.
[End of V2_Chapter 58]
Next: Xu Ruolin's Tears