Chapter 2 — A Letter with Two Voices
1231 Words
The precinct’s conference room smelled like old coffee and fresh printer ink—familiar, stubborn scents that clung to every late-night case.
Captain He Jingyan stood at the front with his arms folded, eyes fixed on the projected image frozen on the screen.
A photo of intertwined hands on a balcony railing. A silver ring catches warm light. A caption that had already spread across the city like wildfire:
If love is a crime, I plead guilty.
Yes.
Around the table sat the task force—two detectives from Major Crimes, a forensic coordinator, a quiet Internal Affairs liaison, and Prosecutor Zhou Shuo, who looked as if he’d slept in court documents.
“You’re trending,” Xu Zhe said without looking up from his laptop. “Top three. Every platform. Half the city is screaming ‘romantic tragedy.’ The other half is calling it a conspiracy.”
Jingyan’s expression didn’t change. “Tell me what matters.”
Xu Zhe typed fast. “Post was scheduled. The draft was created two days ago. But the draft wasn’t created on the victim’s phone or laptop.”
“So remote access,” Jingyan said.
“Or someone cloning her session token,” Xu Zhe replied. “Either way, someone had her credentials.”
Prosecutor Zhou Shuo’s pen paused. “You’re saying she didn’t post it.”
Jingyan clicked the remote, replacing the balcony photo with a high-resolution scan of the crime scene: tea lights in a perfect ring, ivory ribbon, a black velvet ring box, a white sheet smoothed flat, and the dead woman posed like a bride.
The printed letter sat beside her head, elegant and cruel.
Will you marry me?
No one spoke for a moment. Even the Internal Affairs officer, Captain Luo, seemed to swallow his usual polite smile.
“This wasn’t messy,” Jingyan said, voice level. “It was designed.”
Captain Luo finally spoke, soft and amused. “An artistic killer.”
Jingyan glanced at him. “A controlling one.”
Xu Zhe projected the letter next. It filled the wall in neat type:
Will you marry me?
I never asked for much. Only your time. Only your trust. Only your yes.
You tried to leave. You tried to forget. But love doesn’t allow escape.
If you won’t say yes to me, you will say yes to the truth.
Tonight, you will be remembered.
A detective exhaled. “That’s… insane.”
“It’s rehearsed,” Jingyan said. “Not emotional. Not impulsive.”
Zhou Shuo’s eyes sharpened. “You think it’s imitation.”
Jingyan didn’t answer directly. He stared at the line again:
Only your time. Only your trust. Only your yes.
It didn’t read like affection.
It read like entitlement.
Xu Zhe cleared his throat. “Captain, I traced the draft metadata. It routed through a VPN, but the exit node points to one public network.”
Jingyan’s gaze lifted. “Where.”
Xu Zhe turned the laptop toward him. “Harbor City Museum Wi-Fi.”
The room tightened.
Captain Luo’s smile returned—small, smooth, dangerous. “A museum. How tasteful.”
Jingyan ignored the comment. “Anything else tied to the museum?”
Xu Zhe clicked again. A screenshot appeared: the victim’s story from three nights earlier. She smiled in a white dress, champagne in hand, marble columns behind her, golden lights above.
Text overlay in a playful font:
Tonight feels like a movie.
Behind her, blurred but unmistakable, was the museum’s main hall.
“She was there,” Xu Zhe said. “At a charity preview. Sponsored by Hope Harbor Foundation. Big money. Big names.”
Zhou Shuo’s pen stopped. His voice was quiet. “That foundation is… clean on paper.”
Captain Luo leaned back slightly. “Everything is clean on paper.”
Jingyan’s eyes narrowed at the shift in Zhou Shuo’s tone. “You know them.”
“I know their lawyers,” Zhou Shuo corrected. “And I know they don’t like police asking questions.”
Jingyan turned to Xu Zhe. “Pull her message history.”
Xu Zhe hesitated. “Thousands of DMs. But one account stands out.”
He projected it.
Username: @museumcurator_
No profile photo. No posts. Just a blank page and one line in the bio:
History remembers.
Xu Zhe clicked into the chat.
A single message sent the day the victim went silent:
Wear white. You’ll look perfect.
The air went cold.
One detective muttered, “That’s not a fan.”
“That’s a director,” Jingyan said quietly. “Giving costume notes.”
Captain Luo’s voice drifted in, smooth as silk. “Or someone she trusted.”
Jingyan didn’t respond. He thought of the intact door lock. The wine glasses are set for two. The cardigan draped over her shoulders like a gentle afterthought.
An invitation didn’t always look like consent.
Sometimes it looked like fear disguised as normal.
Jingyan stood. “We’re going to the museum.”
Zhou Shuo raised a hand. “You don’t have a warrant.”
“We’re not raiding,” Jingyan said. “We’re asking questions. And watching who flinches.”
Xu Zhe snapped his laptop shut. “I’ll bring tools.”
“You’re coming,” Jingyan said. “The moment we step inside, I want their network breathing.”
Captain Luo remained seated, hands folded. “Internal Affairs will observe.”
Jingyan’s gaze lingered on him half a second too long. “Do that.”
As the team moved, the conference room door swung open.
A young officer rushed in, breathless. “Captain! Media’s downstairs. Tang Nian is leading them. She’s calling it ‘the most romantic murder of the decade.’”
Xu Zhe groaned softly. “That woman is allergic to silence.”
Jingyan didn’t break stride. “Ignore her.”
The officer swallowed. “Captain… there’s more.”
Jingyan stopped. “Speak.”
“The victim’s account posted again.”
Xu Zhe froze. “Impossible. I froze her sessions.”
“I know,” the officer said. “But it posted anyway.”
He held up his phone. Jingyan took it.
On the screen, a new post glowed.
No photo. No emojis.
Just one sentence:
He read my letter. He’s coming.
Timestamp: 21:06
And beneath it, the location tag:
Harbor City Museum
Jingyan stared at the words.
Not because they were threatening.
But because they were intimate.
The killer wasn’t guessing his next move. They were guiding it like a hand on the back of his neck.
Xu Zhe’s voice dropped. “Captain… how is it still posting?”
Jingyan handed the phone back slowly, eyes cold.
“This isn’t a case,” he said. “It’s a stage.”
Zhou Shuo’s expression hardened. “Then don’t give them what they want.”
Jingyan’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have a choice.”
He turned toward the door, toward the waiting cameras downstairs, toward the city already hungry for a story.
“Move.”
And as they stepped into the corridor, the building lights hummed overhead like a heartbeat—steady, blind, uncaring.
Somewhere across the river, the museum sat in quiet elegance, its halls filled with dead history and polished marble.
A perfect place to hide a living predator.
A perfect place to ask for a yes.
And this time, the killer had written the line first.
All Jingyan had to do was arrive on cue.
- Writer
