The next morning, I kept replaying the photo in my head—my dad's laugh, the way the sun hit his shoulder. I'd almost forgotten that version of him, the one before the factory closed, before the quiet evenings staring at the wall.
I found Chen at the diner, nursing a cup of coffee, the letters spread out on the table like a puzzle. His finger tapped a line in the third letter: "The night crew swapped the pressure gauges. Mr. Li saw it, but he's too scared to talk."
"Mr. Li still lives on Maple Street, right?" I said, sliding into the booth. The vinyl seat creaked, and I noticed Chen's knuckles were white—he'd been gripping the mug too tight.
He nodded, jaw tight. "Last I heard. But he's been jumpy since the fire. Never answers his door after dark."
We split up after that. Chen went to check the old factory records, see if he could find a list of the night shift crew. I headed for Maple Street, my shoes scuffing the sidewalk. The houses there were small, with chipped paint and overgrown porches, like time had slowed down.
Mr. Li's place was the third one on the left, a faded blue door with a rusted mailbox. I knocked twice, then waited. Nothing. Knocked again, louder.
"Who is it?" A voice, thin as paper, came from inside.
"Friend of Chen's," I said. "We found some letters. About the factory."
The door creaked open an inch, a pair of eyes peering out—pale, with dark circles. "I don't know nothing," he said, starting to close it.
"Wait!" I fumbled in my pocket, pulled out the photo, held it up. "My dad's in here. Yours too, maybe? He was on the night shift, wasn't he?"
The door stopped. Mr. Li stared at the photo, his Adam's apple bobbing. "That's… that's 2014. Before it all went wrong." He stepped back, letting me in.
The living room smelled like mothballs and regret. A TV hummed in the corner, showing a rerun of an old drama. He pointed to a chair, then sank onto the couch, his hands trembling as he lit a cigarette.
"Those gauges," he said, smoke curling from his lips. "They were set to lie. Said the pressure was normal, but it was spiking. I told the foreman, but he said 'mind your own business.'" He laughed, bitter. "Three days later, the whole west wing went up."
I leaned forward. "Who swapped them? Do you remember names?"
He shook his head, but his eyes flickered to a shelf, to a small frame with a woman's photo. "One of them… had a scar. On his left hand. Like a burn."
A scar. Chen had mentioned his dad had a burn scar—from a welding accident, he'd said. My throat went dry.
The doorbell rang. Mr. Li jumped, knocking over his ashtray. "It's noon," he whispered. "No one rings at noon."
I stood, inched toward the window, peeked through the curtain. A man in a gray jacket, hands in pockets, staring at the house.
"Who is it?" Mr. Li breathed.
I didn't answer. I knew that jacket. It was the same one the security guard wore at the factory—back when it was still standing.
The man knocked, loud, three times.
Mr. Li grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in. "Hide," he said, nodding to a door in the corner. "Quick."
I slipped through it just as the front door opened, pressing my back to the wall. Heard Mr. Li stammer, "Can I help you, officer?"
"Just following up on a report," the man said. "Someone saw you talking to a stranger. About the factory."
My heart thudded. They were watching Mr. Li. Watching us.
Through the crack in the door, I saw the man's left hand—a scar, jagged, like a burn—resting on his belt.
It was starting to make sense. Too much sense.