The Novelist Forced to Become Famous

Chapter 193

After identification by the designer, the material was recognized as a fragment of Jian Jing's wedding dress.

Jiang Baiyan could not explain this.

"My car was stolen over a week ago," he argued, "I even had my assistant report it to the police."

But the police confronted him with the facts: "Reporting it missing doesn't prove the car actually disappeared. You didn't go yourself, the wedding invitation was used, and there was evidence in the car. The whole thing is tied to you."

Jiang Baiyan said: "Someone framed me."

"Who?"

He was silent for a while, seeming to understand what had happened already: "My psychiatrist, Wang Shi, he's my friend and borrows my car occasionally."

The police immediately investigated, but the result was unsurprising.

"Doctor Wang went abroad half a month ago," the police said, "We found his exit records, and he's still overseas, hasn't come back yet."

Jiang Baiyan was shocked and angry: "How could this be! It really wasn't me!"

Unfortunately, verbal sophistry was useless.

The police continued investigating, starting from his car, and finally, through surveillance footage, pinpointed the last place the car went before plunging into the river.

An abandoned warehouse in the suburbs.

Upon opening it, inside was an iron barrel, with ashes from burnt charcoal remaining inside, as well as a lot of white powder.

After analysis, it was identified as cremains.

At the same time, burnt metal pearl hairpins and high heel shoe remnants were also found in the tin barrel. After comparison with what Jian Jing wore that day, they were determined to be her belongings.

In other words, what was burnt to ashes was most likely her.

Jiang Baiyan was extremely surprised, refusing to accept reality: "That's impossible!"

However, the facts were there. The evidence currently discovered had formed a complete chain, even without a confession from the suspect, it was enough to prosecute.

Jiang Baiyan was immediately detained by the police.

Only Ji Feng didn't believe it.

He said: "The evidence against Jiang Baiyan is too comprehensive, clearly a frame job. If we keep investigating like this, the real murderer will get away scot-free."

Lao Gao said: "Investigations must rely on evidence, not feelings. All the evidence points to him, do you think the prosecutors or the judge will believe you?"

Ji Feng: "If you won't investigate, I will."

He was just about to continue investigating along the Xue family lead, when a windfall came from the heavens, the culprit was caught.

Upon hearing this news, Ji Feng immediately felt a chill down his spine, knowing he was in trouble. As expected, the one caught was a drug addict, distantly related to Xue Jun. He just took his stepfather's surname.

His DNA was a perfect match with the sample Ji Feng had found.

The blood didn't belong to Wang Shi at all.

It was a setup.

Ji Feng almost spit blood and stated the obvious: "This is the first time I've been played like this."

Lao Gao consoled him: "Who wasn't tricked by bastards when they were young."

Ji Feng: "......"

In summary, within less than a week, the suspect was identified and all original leads were cut off.

With progress up to this point, the outcome already seemed foreseeable.

*

Wang Shi - whether this was his real name was uncertain, but this was what he was called for now - watched her slowly lose consciousness, shrouded in the mist.

The dosage had to be precisely controlled. Too much would result in complete loss of consciousness, too little would fail to achieve the desired effect.

The light hypnotic state she was in right now was just right.

She could hear him speaking: "Today is August 2nd, 2014, Qixi festival, you are in your own home."

"Home," she mumbled faintly like a mosquito buzzing.

"That's right, your new home," his voice was like hot chocolate fresh off the stove, a warm current flowing past her ear drums, smooth and viscous.

Under such guidance, Jian Jing's consciousness gradually sank, returning to the night of Qixi festival.

That night, it was very dark, the weather was stuffy, as if it would rain the next day. Her parents had just moved into a new home, busy with finding jobs. She, a student not yet started school, was most free, staying at home drinking soda and eating popsicles.

Of course, as a novice writer just stepping into the industry, little Jian Jing was also very diligent.

She was drafting the new White Cat Detective volume.

Ah, stories were hard to write, devising detective techniques even harder. She had already covered pinhole cameras, Morse code, tape lifting fingerprints, litmus paper...what technique should she write about next?

It was vexing.

The science she learned in middle school was limited. Should she buy a couple more popular science books?

Chewing her pen in distress, she heard footsteps and the sound of the lock opening from the door.

Her parents were home.

They bought braised food. Her mother rolled up her sleeves, ready to stir-fry some fresh fruits and vegetables. Her father went to the balcony to take in the laundry. The home, quiet for a whole day, suddenly became lively.

She heard her mother complain: "What a waste, that roast chicken. I said we should've picked it up, could've just washed it and it'd be fine."

"It already fell on the ground, what's the point of taking it back," her father grumbled.

Her mother put her hands on her hips: "It cost thirty bucks, you've been living the good life for a few days, now you look down on this bit of money?"

Jian Jing silently closed her door.

Every family had their own troubles, and every couple had their own dynamics. Her parents liked to bicker at home, fighting over trifles for a while, the winner feeling great, the loser sulking for half a day.

Of course, this did not affect the couple's feelings. After arguing they'd cozy up together watching TV.

This was probably adults'......er......fun.

So Jian Jing didn't think much of it, and didn't give her opinion on the roast chicken dropped on the ground. She sat back down at her desk, and continued outlining.

She didn't know how much time passed, when she heard the door open again, her parents talking, chatting very enthusiastically.

Like most children, Jian Jing hated dealing with guests. Visiting relatives during holidays was the most dreadful thing. She was scared that as soon as she went out, her parents would lose control of their showing off urge, and brag to the neighbors and guests about her writing.

Whenever this happened, she wished she could dig a hole and burrow inside.

The sense of crisis from before had faded after moving, she hesitated for a bit, didn't think too deeply about the dangers of the world, and decided to hide in her room, pretending she didn't hear anything.

But outside the window, a silhouette said: "If you come out now, perhaps your parents wouldn't have to die."

Jian Jing froze.

"What a pity, you're still half a bucket of water, arousing my curiosity, yet lacking sufficient wariness," the silhouette flashed by, appearing behind her back.

The room door opened wide, and she saw her parents passed out in the living room.

"You killed them," the little girl shrieked, "Help-"

The man covered her mouth, firmly restraining her arms and legs. He took out a small canister resembling an oxygen mask, placing it over her nose and mouth.

She held her breath, turning red in the face.

But even an adult woman's strength was insufficient to resist an adult man, let alone her, an underage middle schooler.

Her strength faded, her chest suffocated, the agony of oxygen deprivation caused her body to collapse, forcing her to gasp desperately for air, naturally breathing in the anesthesia vapors too.

The girl lost consciousness.

But seven years later, Jian Jing's consciousness was still present.

She watched "herself" collapse on the sofa, watched as he commenced the performance he had carefully orchestrated.

A performance of murder.

He moved Jian Jing's parents onto the bed, allowing them to nestle in a familiar place, hands crossed over their abdomen, then took out a syringe, drew up medication, and slowly injected it into their veins.

His actions were skilled, as if he had done it many times before.

"I have no interest in killing," the perpetrator explained to the side, "Death's outcome is the most important part. Overly convoluted processes will only get oneself into trouble."

Jian Jing watched him expressionlessly.

He smiled: "Thought you'd thank me for not letting them suffer."

"I understand now," she said instead.

He raised an eyebrow: "Understand what?"

"Why you were able to evade police capture," she stated matter-of-factly while watching him tidy up the scene, "If you only care about the outcome, the simpler the process the better, you're very rational."

Most serial killers have their own rituals.

Some are picky about target selection, some like specific methods of death, some insist on creating a death scene that matches their imagination, some are even more audacious, directly leaving behind coded messages.

The more they do, the more mistakes they make. This was an unchanging truth.

The key reason he kept escaping was that he didn't do anything extra.

Do not mistreat the dead, do not leave symbolic marks, do not engage in flashy rituals. The simpler and cleaner the killing process, the better. The less clues left for the police, the better they can delay catching him.

"Is this meant to be praise?" he asked.

Jian Jing ignored him and said to herself, "But there are exceptions, Guo Yifang."

She studied his facial expressions carefully, but his psychological defenses were strong and his face betrayed no abnormality. He only asked back interestedly, "Are you sure? Think carefully."

"I'm very sure," Jian Jing answered without hesitation. "You put a lot of effort into Guo Yifang. If it was a trap, it would be too much of a waste for no one to discover it. But the police still haven't noticed anything, which shows you don't want them to find out at all."

He did not deny this complimentary analysis for the moment.

She asked, "What's so special about her to you?"

A proud smile appeared at the corner of his lips. "I just wanted to see if anyone could uncover this little secret. Too bad I wasted the effort. Now that it's your turn, I have to make it more obvious."

To increase persuasiveness, he added, "Performing monologues for too long without an audience ultimately lacks something."

Jian Jing stared into his eyes. "You're lying."

He said calmly, "What do I have to deceive you about?"

"You're afraid of being discovered," she said. "Discovered that you have incestuous feelings for your mother."

As she uttered the last few words, his face convulsed violently for a moment. "If you remain so tactless, I'll have to teach you a lesson."

"You're afraid," Jian Jing smiled.

In the exchange of consciousness, there was no deadly poison, no separating glass, only a pure collision of souls, a wrestling match of spirits.

"Tell me, do you love her or hate her? Do you regret not killing her or regret failing to save her?" She pressed on relentlessly. Her tone was not aggressive at all, but full of curiosity, like a proud student determined to outdo the teacher.

This was a provocation he could tolerate, so his expression softened. "You're very curious about my story."

"I've ruined my original life and rewritten my destiny," she said. "You know me inside out, yet I know nothing about you. That's unfair."

He said, "I don't recommend you pry into my past."

"But I'm really curious," she faced him directly, looking into his eyes. "What are you so afraid of?"

Time stopped, memories stopped.

In their visions, his condescending look and her upturned gaze swiftly transformed, tugging into a horizontal line of mutual eye level. Her consciousness suddenly regained control and turned aggressive.

"Let me see," she reached out and grabbed his collar. "It's my turn now."

"That's enough!" Wang Shi's face changed color as he shook his hand free of her clinginess.

Too late.

Space warped, the vortex spun in reverse, and a new scene emerged.

This was - his memory.