My grandpa, Chen He, was a die-hard old superstitionist.
He swore that a name had to have two characters—never one. Otherwise, a person's fate would be incomplete, broken, cursed. He was too old and set in his ways to change his own single-character name, so when it came to naming my dad, he went all in: Chen Guowen. Two characters, solid as a rock.
As for me? My original name wasn't Chen Mo. It was Chen Fuguang. Bright, shining, full of light. I changed it when I was a kid—after I got deathly ill, so sick I almost checked out for good. Grandpa dragged in a so-called "master" to read my fortune, a guy who looked like he'd spent his life living under a bridge. I don't remember all the mumbo-jumbo he spouted about my fate being "unusual" or "unbalanced." I was too young to care, too young to believe in any of that hocus-pocus.
But I do remember this: the master told grandpa that my fate needed to be lacking something. A void. A gap. Otherwise, I'd bring disaster to everyone around me, kill them with my cursed luck. So grandpa changed my name to Chen Mo. Mo, as in ink—dark, heavy, a blank space where light used to be. A void, just like the master ordered.
That name—Chen Guowen—hit me like a punch to the gut when it came out of Liu Ge's mouth.
Meng Yifan and I thought of my dad at the same time. Our eyes locked, both of us white as ghosts, both of us thinking the same thing: No way. It can't be.
Names are just names, right? Common as dirt. Chen Guowen isn't some unique, one-of-a-kind moniker. Hundreds of guys in this city probably share it. And my family? We're not rich—not by a long shot. We've got one house. One tiny, cramped apartment that sucked up every last penny grandpa ever saved. There's no way in hell we've got a second property sitting somewhere, a secret house no one ever mentioned.
"Liu Ge," I said, my voice cracking just a little, forcing myself to sound calm. "This Chen Guowen—how old is he? Where's he from?"
My hands were sweating under the table. My heart was hammering so hard I thought it would burst through my ribs. I was begging the universe for a coincidence. A lucky break. Anything.
Liu Ge scratched his chin, thinking. "Don't know his exact age. But I saw him at the station this afternoon. Middle-aged guy. Polished. Wears glasses. Sounds like a local—no funny accent or anything."
My blood turned to ice.
My dad wears glasses. Thin, wire-rimmed ones that sit on the bridge of his nose. He's always been the quiet type—bookish, gentle, the kind of guy who'd apologize to a door if he bumped into it. He worked as an accountant for the same company for over a decade until it went under, then bounced to a friend's factory, crunching numbers in a tiny office with no windows. No sun, no wind, no weather to age him. He's in his fifties, but looks forty-something—smooth skin, no wrinkles, that soft, sheltered look of a man who's never had to lift anything heavier than a calculator.
And he's a local. Born and raised here, same as me.
Every single detail Liu Ge just spit out fit my dad like a glove. The name. The glasses. The age. The accent. The whole damn package.
Coincidences only stretch so far. This wasn't a coincidence. Not anymore.
My hands started shaking. I could feel the panic rising in my chest, hot and sharp, clawing at my throat. A murder case. A corpse in a wall. My dad's name. My dad's face. My dad's voice. How the hell was he tangled up in this? Where did he get the money for a second house? Did grandpa know? Did anyone know?
I was about to lose my mind right there in the restaurant booth when Meng Yifan kicked me under the table—hard. I shot him a look, and he gave me a tiny, frantic shake of his head, his eyes screaming Calm down. Don't blow this. Then he turned to Liu Ge, grinning like nothing was wrong, like his best friend wasn't two seconds away from a full-on breakdown.
"Sorry about him," Meng Yifan said, nodding at me. "Guy's got hemorrhoids acting up again. Can't sit still for five minutes. Gotta go drain the lizard, am I right?"
It was a terrible lie. A stupid lie. But it was a lifeline.
I jumped on it, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah, uh—long night. Longer day. Be right back, Liu Ge. Don't touch my food, okay?"
I grabbed my phone off the table and practically ran out of the private booth, my legs wobbly, my mind a mess of static and fear. I ducked into the first empty hallway I found, fumbling with my phone, my fingers slipping on the screen. I dialed my dad's number—please pick up, please pick up, please—and listened to the cold, robotic beep that meant his phone was turned off.
My dad never turned his phone off. Never. Not when he slept, not when he showered, not even when he was in a meeting. His phone was his lifeline, his connection to the world. The fact that it was dead? It was a confession. A giant, flashing neon sign that screamed Something is very, very wrong.
The last shred of hope I had dissolved into dust.
He was the first owner of that house. He'd been brought in for questioning. He'd turned his phone off to avoid me. Avoid everyone.
I leaned against the wall, my knees buckling, and dialed grandpa's number instead. It rang once, twice, three times—then he picked up, his voice tight, strained, nothing like his usual gruff, warm self.
"Xiao Mo? What's wrong? Why are you calling so late?"
"Grandpa," I said, my voice cracking. "Where's dad? Is he home?"
Silence. Thick, heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that tells you everything you need to know without a single word.
Then, finally, grandpa spoke. His voice was a whisper, like he was scared someone was listening. "He's home. Just got back. Why? What's going on?"
"Where was he before?" I pressed, my heart in my throat.
More silence. Longer this time.
"Working overtime," grandpa said, the lie so thin it was transparent. "He's been swamped lately. Came home late, that's all."
I didn't push it. There was no point. He knew. He knew everything.
"I'm coming home tonight," I said, my voice flat, empty. "Don't wait up."
I hung up before he could say anything else, shoving the phone back in my pocket. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my hands, trying to unclench the knot in my stomach. I was a mess—pale, shaky, eyes red-rimmed—but I had to go back. Had to finish the conversation with Liu Ge. Had to find out more.
When I walked back into the booth, Meng Yifan was already steering the conversation away from the case, talking about some stupid real estate deal that didn't matter. Liu Ge was nodding along, half-listening, picking at a plate of crayfish. I slid back into my seat, forcing a smile, pretending like I hadn't just had my entire world turned upside down.
I wanted to ask more—Did he confess? Did you find any evidence? Where is he now?—but I couldn't. Not without giving myself away. So instead, I leaned forward, my voice low, urgent.
"Liu Ge," I said. "Can you keep an eye on these two cases for us? The massacre from fifteen years ago, and the body in the wall? If you hear anything—anything—you gotta let us know. Please."
This wasn't just about ghosts anymore. It wasn't just about Li Xiumei's knocking or the red high heels or the photo taped to my door. This was about my dad. About my family. About whether the man who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike, who read me bedtime stories, was a killer.
"And if you need to grease any palms," I added, my voice hard. "If you need cash to smooth things over—name your price. It's on me. Whatever it takes."
Liu Ge stared at me for a long second, his eyes sharp, like he was seeing through my lies, seeing the fear underneath. Then he nodded, picking up a crayfish and cracking it open. "No problem, kid. We're friends, right? Friends look out for each other."
But then he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a murmur, the playful grin gone from his face. "Just one thing. You gotta tell me the truth. Why do you care so much about this dead woman? Why are you and your buddy so invested in a case that's got nothing to do with you?"
Meng Yifan and I exchanged a look. There was no way around it. No way to lie our way out of this one.
I took a deep breath, and said the one thing I never thought I'd say to a cop.
"Liu Ge," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You might not believe this. But we're being haunted. By her. By Li Xiumei. And now this—your Chen Guowen? He's my dad."
Liu Ge froze. The crayfish he was holding slipped from his fingers, falling onto the plate with a wet plop. His eyes went wide, his face draining of color. For a second, I thought he was gonna laugh. Call us crazy. Throw us out of the restaurant.
But he didn't.
Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his voice quiet, serious, like he was sharing a secret he'd carried for years.
"I believe you," he said.
Meng Yifan and I stared at him, stunned. A cop. A homicide detective. Believing in ghosts?
"You two look like you've seen a ghost," Liu Ge said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And for what it's worth? I don't blame you. I've seen shit in this job that would make your hair turn white. Shit that can't be explained. Shit that doesn't make sense."
He paused, picking up his whiskey glass and swirling it around, his eyes dark.
"When I first joined the force," he said, his voice low. "I worked a case. A kid—eighteen years old—got killed. Stabbed in an alley. Robbed for his wallet. We never found the killer. Never had a single lead. But then… weird stuff started happening. His phone would call his mom at midnight every night. His favorite song would play on the radio out of nowhere. Lights would flicker in his empty bedroom."
He took a sip of his drink, wincing.
"Then, one night, I was patrolling the alley where he died. And I saw him. The kid. Standing there, pale as a sheet, staring at me. He pointed at a dumpster. A specific dumpster. I went over there, lifted the lid, and found the murder weapon. A knife. With the killer's prints all over it."
Liu Ge set his glass down, staring at us like he was waiting for us to call bullshit.
"I never told anyone about that," he said. "Not my captain, not my partner, not even my wife. They'd think I lost my mind. But it happened. And that's why I believe you. Because some things… some things can't be explained by fingerprints or witness statements. Some things are just… wrong."
He leaned forward, his voice sharp, urgent.
"So here's what we're gonna do. I'll dig into Chen Guowen. See what I can find. Check his alibi. See if he's got any connection to Li Xiumei or her husband. And you two? You keep digging into that house. Find out everything you can about the massacre. About the little girl who vanished. Because I think that's the key. That little girl. She's the missing piece."
He paused, his eyes locking onto mine.
"And if your dad is guilty?" he said, his voice soft, but firm. "You gotta do the right thing, kid. No matter how much it hurts."
I nodded, my throat tight, unable to speak.
Right thing. What the hell was the right thing anymore? Turn in my own father? Let him go to prison for a murder he might not have committed? Or keep quiet, and let Li Xiumei's ghost haunt us forever?
Liu Ge drained his glass, slamming it down on the table. "One more thing. You said she's been knocking on your doors? Asking for Li Xiumei?"
I nodded.
He leaned in, his voice a whisper.
"Next time she knocks," he said. "Don't hide. Don't run. Answer the door. Ask her what she wants. Because I think she's not just haunting you. She's begging you for help."