Her Name in the Case File

Chapter 3 — Lin Wanqing, Consultant

The Harbor City Museum looked harmless from the outside—white stone, tall columns, warm lights that made it feel like a sanctuary for art and quiet minds. Couples took photos by the fountain. A security guard yawned by the gate. The river behind it moved like a ribbon of black silk, reflecting the city’s glow.

Nothing about it looked like a crime scene.

Which was exactly why Jingyan didn’t like it.

He stepped out of the unmarked car and scanned the entrance with the same instincts he used in alleyways and blood-soaked apartments. The museum doors were wide open, welcoming, polite. A banner near the top read:

Hope Harbor Foundation — Private Preview Night

A charity event. Clean on paper. Beautiful on camera.

Xu Zhe climbed out beside him, laptop bag swinging like a weapon. “You ever notice,” he muttered, “that rich people like to commit crimes in places with good lighting?”

Jingyan didn’t answer. His eyes landed on the marble steps.

There were no crowds now. The preview had ended hours ago. Yet the museum still felt… awake. Not with people, but with expectation—like a stage waiting for actors to arrive on cue.

Zhou Shuo appeared behind them, neat as a pressed contract. “We’re here as observers,” he reminded calmly. “Ask questions. No illegal access.”

Xu Zhe let out a small laugh. “Yes, sir. I’ll just breathe legally.”

Jingyan started up the steps.

The first security guard recognized him too quickly. Not from the department—Jingyan was careful about staying anonymous—but from the headlines that had already spread. The guard’s posture stiffened, eyes flicking to the two officers behind him.

“Captain He,” the guard said. “We weren’t informed—”

“You are now.” Jingyan showed his badge briefly. “We need your network logs. Tonight.”

The guard blinked. “Network logs?”

Xu Zhe smiled in a way that never meant anything good. “You have public Wi-Fi. People connect. Devices leave footprints. Footprints tell stories.”

The guard swallowed. “I… I’ll have to contact our IT manager.”

“Do that,” Jingyan said. “Now.”

Inside, the museum smelled like polished stone and old paper. The air-conditioning was set too low, cold enough to make people hold their arms close to their bodies—as if the building itself demanded restraint.

They walked past the main hall where paintings slept under soft spotlights. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor. Every step echoed like a warning.

Jingyan checked the corners without turning his head. Cameras were mounted high on the walls, silent eyes watching everything. Security was visible, but not strong. This wasn’t a place built for defense. It was built to look safe.

A woman in a black suit approached, heels quiet on marble. Museum administration. Her smile was trained, her gaze practiced.

“Captain He,” she greeted. “I’m Ms. Shen, the foundation’s board secretary. We were told you would come.”

Jingyan’s eyes narrowed. “We didn’t announce ourselves.”

Ms. Shen smiled politely. “News travels fast.”

Xu Zhe leaned close and whispered, “Or someone watched us drive over.”

Jingyan ignored him. “I want tonight’s guest list. Full. Names, phone numbers, entry timestamps.”

Ms. Shen’s smile didn’t crack. “That information is private.”

Zhou Shuo stepped forward, calm as a seal. “Then we request cooperation under the investigation protocol. If you refuse, we escalate.”

Ms. Shen’s gaze flicked to Zhou Shuo. She recognized authority the way a banker recognized money. “Prosecutor Zhou,” she said smoothly. “Of course. We’ll cooperate within legal limits.”

Jingyan felt it then—how quickly her attention shifted once a higher rank appeared. Not respect. Calculation.

Ms. Shen gestured toward a glass-walled office. “Our IT manager will arrive shortly. While you wait, perhaps you’d like to review the security footage?”

Jingyan’s voice stayed even. “Yes.”

They entered the office. A large monitor lit the room in pale blue. Ms. Shen tapped a keyboard and pulled up CCTV feeds.

Xu Zhe’s gaze scanned the network router on the shelf like a hungry wolf. “Mind if I take a look at your Wi-Fi system?”

Ms. Shen’s smile sharpened. “Please don’t touch anything you don’t own.”

Xu Zhe held up both hands innocently. “I’m just appreciating the craft skills.”

Jingyan focused on the footage.

Hours of guests arriving in evening wear. Smiles. Champagne. Flashing cameras. White dresses drifting across marble like ghosts. The victim appeared in frame around 19:02, laughing as she walked in with two other girls. She paused near the mural wall and lifted her phone for a story.

Her smile was bright, easy. Alive.

Jingyan watched her face closely. People never looked the same before they died. There was always a softness they lost later.

Then, at 19:41, her posture changed.

She stopped near the archway leading to the private exhibit corridor. Her expression flickered—subtle, quick. Not fear exactly. Something colder.

Recognition.

A shadow crossed the camera. Someone walked into frame behind her.

The camera angle didn’t catch the face. Only a shoulder. Dark coat. A gloved hand briefly lifted as if pointing.

The victim turned her head. Nodded once.

And followed.

Jingyan’s spine tightened.

He rewound it and watched again, slower.

The moment was short. Easy to miss. But it held the same weight as a knife laid gently on a table.

Zhou Shuo leaned in. “That corridor—where does it lead?”

Ms. Shen answered smoothly. “The archive wing. Restricted area.”

Jingyan looked at her. “Who can enter?”

“Staff. Board members. VIP guests with special invitations.”

“Then open it.”

Ms. Shen hesitated. One breath too long.

Then she smiled again. “I’m afraid it’s closed tonight.”

Xu Zhe murmured, “Closed, but someone just walked a murder victim in there.”

Ms. Shen’s gaze stayed calm. “Captain, you’re making accusations without evidence.”

Jingyan stared at her. “I’m collecting evidence. Don’t obstruct.”

The temperature in the office seemed to drop. Ms. Shen’s smile finally thinned into something more honest.

“I will call the director,” she said. “But Captain… please understand. This museum has donors. People with reputations. If you cause panic—”

Jingyan cut her off, voice hard. “Someone is already dead.”

Silence.

Ms. Shen turned away, heels clicking as she left the office to make her call. The glass door closed behind her with a soft, final sound.

Xu Zhe exhaled slowly. “She’s too calm.”

“Calm is expensive,” Jingyan said. “People like her buy it.”

Xu Zhe opened his laptop on the table, fingers flying. “I’m pulling Wi-Fi connection history from what’s public. If the killer used this network, I’ll find a device signature. Unless they used a burner with MAC randomization, in which case—”

“In which case, we still get patterns,” Jingyan finished.

Zhou Shuo’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and frowned. “Media’s outside the museum now.”

Xu Zhe grimaced. “Of course they are.”

Jingyan didn’t move. His eyes remained on the frozen CCTV frame—the victim turning, nodding, following a shadow into the restricted corridor.

A controlled movement.

A rehearsed surrender.

Then Jingyan’s own phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number.

No ID. No profile. Just text.

Don’t waste time in the lobby.

She isn’t the first one who walked in willingly.

Jingyan’s thumb hovered above the screen.

Xu Zhe noticed the shift in his face. “Captain?”

Jingyan didn’t answer immediately. He read the message again. The tone wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t angry.

It was familiar.

Like someone whispering directions backstage.

Then a second message appeared.

Ask the museum for the case file.

The one with her name on it.

Jingyan felt his pulse tighten, controlled but sharp.

Zhou Shuo looked up. “What is it?”

Jingyan locked his screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “We’re going to the archive wing.”

Xu Zhe’s eyebrows lifted. “Without permission?”

“With or without,” Jingyan said quietly. “Someone is inviting us.”

Zhou Shuo’s voice lowered. “Jingyan. If you cross a legal line—”

“I’ll deal with it,” Jingyan said.

He stood, gaze fixed on the corridor in the CCTV feed.

The museum lights outside the office glowed warm, gentle, innocent.

But Jingyan had learned something from years of violent truths:

The most dangerous places were the ones that looked safe.

They left the office.

Marble swallowed their footsteps. The air grew colder as they moved deeper into the building. The sound of the city faded, replaced by the hush of history trapped behind glass.

At the end of the hall stood a heavy door with a brass plaque:

ARCHIVE — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

A keypad blinked red.

Xu Zhe approached it, a grin creeping back like a bad habit. “Finally. Something fun.”

Jingyan watched the dark hallway behind them. No one followed. No staff. No security.

Too quiet.

Xu Zhe typed quickly, using a portable device to test the keypad. “If this is connected to the museum network—”

The keypad beeped.

Red turned green.

The door clicked open.

Zhou Shuo’s face tightened. “Xu Zhe.”

Xu Zhe shrugged. “It’s not hacking. It’s… aggressive curiosity.”

Jingyan pushed the door open.

Cold air poured out like a breath from underground. The archive wing was dim, shelves towering like silent forests, labeled boxes lined up in rows. The scent here was different—paper, dust, metal.

Old secrets.

Jingyan stepped inside first.

The moment his shoe crossed the threshold, the overhead lights flickered once—then stabilized, casting a pale, sterile glow across the rows.

And at the far end of the aisle, placed neatly on a metal table as if someone had prepared it for him, lay a folder.

A case file.

Fresh. Clean. Not dusty like the others.

A single name printed on the front page in bold black letters:

LIN WANQING

Jingyan froze.

Xu Zhe’s voice fell into a whisper. “Captain… why is her name here?”

Zhou Shuo stepped in behind them, eyes narrowing. “That shouldn’t exist.”

Jingyan stared at the folder as if it might explode.

Behind them, the archive door swung shut on its own.

Click.

A lock sliding into place.

Xu Zhe spun around. “Did you close that?”

“No,” Jingyan said.

The keypad outside beeped once.

Then the red light came on again.

Locked.

And somewhere deeper in the archive, a soft sound drifted through the shelves—too faint to be footsteps, too deliberate to be a coincidence.

Like someone turning a page.

Jingyan didn’t move.

Because he understood, in that instant, what the killer had done.

They hadn’t invited him here to find evidence.

They’d invited him here to find her.

And the museum, with its quiet halls and polished lies, had just become their private stage.