Chapter 16: A Terrifying Nightmare
Dad had always been naive, almost to a fault.
From him, I finally pieced it together—the young couple who'd paid him that fifty grand fifteen years ago were none other than Li Xiumei and Lü Zhengxian. Husband and wife.
We already knew Li Xiumei was one of the Westbrook Manor Massacre killers; Lü Zhengxian was undoubtedly her accomplice.
Dad had unknowingly done business with cold-blooded murderers.
Worse still, he'd taken their money without even knowing them—hardly more than a handful of meetings total.
"I only ever knew their names," Dad said, his face twisted with distress. "We weren't friends, barely crossed paths. Later on, I only saw Lü Zhengxian. He told me his wife had gone back to her hometown to have their baby, and they planned to sell the condo."
"I thought it odd—they'd only owned the place six months—but it wasn't my call to make. Then he handed me another five grand to handle the sale for them."
"I sold it to a Mr. Ding, kept only that five grand, and gave Lü Zhengxian every penny from the sale—didn't hold back a cent."
I nodded slowly, pieces clicking into place.
Mr. Ding was the condo's second owner—I'd met him. He'd listed the place at our agency, and I'd sold it to Mr. Hu.
I looked Dad in the eye, my voice heavy. "Dad, Li Xiumei and Lü Zhengxian were the pair behind the Westbrook Manor Massacre fifteen years ago. And odds are, Lü Zhengxian killed Li Xiumei."
The police hadn't confirmed it yet, but logic was unassailable—they'd lived there together. To kill her, seal her in the wall with cement without a trace? Only someone living under the same roof could pull that off.
Monsters turned on their own, no mercy left.
Dad's face drained of all color, he froze, words catching in his throat. He'd never fathomed the couple who'd given him money were such monsters.
"You fool—all you ever see is dollar signs!" Grandpa snapped, pointing a trembling finger at Dad, fury in his voice. "Now there's a body in that condo! How will you explain this to the police?!"
Dad panicked, grabbing my hands tight, his own shaking. "Son, you know me—I'd never hurt anyone! Li Xiumei's death has nothing to do with me! You have to tell your cop friend—please!"
I sighed, patting his hands to calm him. "Just tell the police the truth—hold nothing back. If you're innocent, the law won't frame you. You're the nominal first owner, so you'll probably have some hoops to jump through, maybe pay some hush money to smooth things over—but it's manageable."
It was harsh but true—money talked, especially in moments like this.
Relief washed over Dad's face at my words.
With the truth out, I had to leave. I couldn't risk dragging Grandpa and Dad into the ghost's wrath—my danger alone, not theirs.
They tried to convince me to stay, unaware of the real peril.
"It's late—sleep here! You have your car, just leave early tomorrow," Grandpa urged.
"I can't—work's a mess these days, need to hash things out with Jake," I lied.
As an adult, they couldn't force me to stay, so they relented, quiet worry in their eyes.
Before I stepped out, Grandpa pulled me aside, his gaze sharp—he'd noticed my pallor.
"Ethan, you look terrible—what's wrong?"
"Just tired from work, Grandpa—nothing," I lied, not daring to burden him with the truth.
He sighed, patting my arm, voice soft with concern. "Don't work yourself to death. Money's worthless if you ruin your health."
"I'll be careful—you two get some rest."
Dad insisted on walking me downstairs, still fretting over the case, begging me to plead his case to Detective Liu, to make sure he wouldn't be arrested.
"I'm fine, Dad—no one's arresting you. Go back inside, get some sleep."
I climbed into the car—my driver had waited downstairs—and told him to head to the spa.
In the rearview mirror, I saw Dad standing on the steps, watching my car until it vanished around the corner.
A pang hit my chest. I'd rarely visited home since starting work with Jake, always swamped. Tonight, I'd noticed how much older Dad looked—his back slightly hunched, lines deeper on his face.
Grandpa and Dad had raised me alone. Funny enough, Mom had left fifteen years ago this very year—abandoned us without a word, never called, never visited. Everyone knew she'd run off with another man. Dad never spoke ill of her, but I'd seen his quiet grief for years. He never remarried, afraid I'd be mistreated by a stepmother.
To me, he was the best man alive—no way he'd ever hurt a soul.
Minutes later, I reached the spa.
A foot soak and massage sounded heavenly; exhausted beyond measure, I drifted off almost instantly under the technician's hands.
Jake had picked a solid spot—busy, well-lit, and safe. For the first time in days, I heard no haunting knocks, no whispers.
But I was tormented by a vivid, horrifying nightmare.
I was back in that cursed condo—but it was nothing like the place I'd shown to clients. The decor was dated, cheap, straight out of fifteen years prior—faded wallpaper, shoddy wooden furniture, the stale smell of old cigarette smoke in the air.
I didn't question the change in the dream, only curiosity pulling me forward.
Then I heard it—from the master bedroom, a faint, scraping shush-shush sound. Cement being troweled onto a wall.
My blood turned to ice as I crept to the bedroom door.
A man knelt on the floor, back to me, slathering cement onto the wall with a trowel. He wore a frayed work cap and a dirty jumpsuit, his face hidden.
Even in the dream, I froze solid, cold dread coiling in my gut. Li Xiumei's body had been sealed in that very wall. This man—he was the killer.
Was it Lü Zhengxian?
My heart hammered so loud I swore he'd hear it. I didn't dare move, didn't even realize I was dreaming, terrified he'd sense me watching.
Then—he stopped. Mid-stroke, the trowel still in his hand.
He'd heard me.
A chill ran down my spine, every hair on my body standing on end. I felt a sharp, malevolent gaze lock onto me, slow as a blade being drawn.
Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his head.
That vicious stare pierced me like a dagger.
My eyes flew wide, a ragged gasp tearing from my throat—horror freezing me to the core.
The man under the work cap was Dad.
Younger Dad—his face as it had been fifteen years ago, before the lines, before the quiet sorrow had etched itself into his features.