Chapter 210: Twelve Bowls

2022-05-20

Night deepened, like someone had pulled a heavy black curtain across the sky, stretching so far you couldn’t see where it ended. Xiao Liu got into the car without looking back at us. The engine started, then the car disappeared into the darkness, its rear lights leaving a flash of red before vanishing around the corner.

The engine’s droning buzz seemed to echo in our minds, making it impossible to shake a wave of irritation.

Gu Chen, who’d always had issues with Xiao Liu, didn’t say a single word now.

After a while, it was Guan Zengbin who finally broke the silence. “So… what do we do now? If Xiao Liu catches the killer first, chances are we’ll have to leave Dongxing City.”

I glanced at Guan Zengbin and said softly, “Honestly, does it really matter where we are?”

He stood on tiptoe, stretching, then let out a big yawn before saying, “Yeah, I don’t mind. Our main job is to find Zhao Mingkun. Whether it’s Dongxing City or anywhere else, if there’s a new case we investigate, if not we focus on searching for Zhao Mingkun.”

Gu Chen shrugged. “I don’t really care either, but it bugs me to just let someone else one-up us. And wasn’t Xiao Liu heading in the wrong direction? There’s still plenty of time. Xiao Liu doesn’t trust us, won’t share the key clue, so let’s dig it up ourselves.”

I sighed, letting out a wry smile. “That’s not what I meant. From what I see, Xiao Liu’s definitely headed down a dead end. I’m not sure what clues he thinks he’s got, but at the moment he won’t get to the killer faster than us—unless he completely overturns his own theory.”

I turned away and gazed up at the star-studded sky, then said quietly, “What I mean is, no matter where you go, as long as there are people, there’s darkness. And where there are people, there’ll be murders. That’s just how people are.”

Xiao Liu’s parting made it clear: when it comes to power, he wants it way more than the rest of us. Even the fact he played the lottery religiously for three years showed that. I never knew why Xiao Liu was so desperate for money and he never talked about it, but one thing’s for sure—he’d never let any chance slip by.

“So what now?” Guan Zengbin looked at me.

“We wait,” I answered. “Right now, our only breakthrough is with that bowl. Something that matters this much to the killer can’t just be an ordinary bowl. And since we already know which factory made it—even if it’s been over a decade—with Mary’s skills, she can definitely find these people and the place.”

Morning slipped by before we knew it.

When Mary finally laid an address down in front of us, Gu Chen shoved the last mouthful of noodles into his mouth and jumped up. “This is the place the bowl was made?”

Mary nodded. She pointed to a mark on the map. “That’s right. And there’s good news. I found one of the old managers by searching online. Well, ‘manager’ might be too generous—a family-run workshop, just a handful of people. Since it was a small place, they didn’t make much.”

We all nodded.

Mary went on, “Later, as Dongxing City grew and bigger factories popped up, it only took a few years for them to close down. But I still managed to find one family member’s address. I’ve written it down for you. Her name is Wu Xiufen, she’s already in her 60s. With family businesses, books are always a mess, so I’m not sure if she’ll remember anything about those bowls.”

I hurriedly shoveled a few more mouthfuls of rice, then said, “Doesn’t matter if she remembers or not. Back then, Dongxing City was such a tiny place, no one would buy a bowl from far away and online shopping didn’t exist. So, either the killer’s home is nearby or whoever gave them the bowl lives close by.”

“Let’s go!” I grabbed a napkin and wiped my mouth.

The address was in Dongxing City’s Old Town, at least a three-hour drive without traffic. We got on the Fifth Ring Road and didn’t care about anything else. By the time we arrived, we were surrounded by wilderness.

Finding a quiet little village like this in Dongxing City wasn’t easy. Life in the big city had trained us to always hurry, never pause. This place used to be called Dongxing Village, but after the city was established, the name changed to Xingdong Village.

“Up ahead,” Gu Chen said as he parked on the narrow lane, pointing at a house.

The door was made of wood, old and weathered, with years of history etched into it.

We knocked a few times. At last, a woman’s hoarse voice called out, “Who’s there?”

As she spoke, the door opened, and an old woman appeared. She looked kind, gentle, even a little motherly. There was a puzzled look in her eyes as she asked, “Who are you looking for?”

Guan Zengbin showed our credentials and asked about the Red Mill Factory.

The old woman nodded and confirmed that the Red Mill had been her family’s business.

As she spoke, she invited us into her home.

It was an ordinary farmhouse courtyard—three rooms in the middle, flanked by east and west side wings. She led us into the main room and poured water for us while we sat down.

I settled into a chair, taking in my surroundings. This place hadn’t seen repairs in years—plaster peeling and cracked everywhere. Judging by her things, the old lady lived alone. There was only one set of utensils on the table, a row of shoes by the door, a single blanket on the bed—all clear signs.

I wasn’t sure if she’d never had a husband, or if he’d left or died.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at a photo frame near the bed. The picture was of a beautiful young woman, dressed in rough clothes, but her youth and beauty were impossible to hide. The background showed a truck and a winding country road stretching into the distance.

Looking closely, the woman’s eyes looked just like the old lady’s. It had to be a photo of her in her younger days. Gu Chen stuck out his tongue and picked up the frame. I glanced at the date in the corner—it was over thirty years ago.

“You were really pretty when you were young,” Gu Chen said, grinning as he shook the photo.

The old woman turned, saw the picture, and smiled. “Yeah, back then everyone called me the village flower. There were so many guys lining up to propose, the line went from the east end to the west end of the village.”

But after she spoke, the smile dropped from her face. A strange sadness welled up in her eyes, tears welling beneath the cloudy surface.

We had no idea what memory had made her so sad.

Putting the frame back, Guan Zengbin walked over and gently took her hand. “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

The old lady rubbed her eyes. “Talking about this always reminds me of my old man. But it’s been more than ten years since he passed and my time’s almost up too. When you’re old, you forget so much—but a few things, you just never let go.”

“You were so pretty in your youth, Grandpa was lucky to chase after you,” Guan Zengbin said gently. “I bet the two of you had a happy life together.”

Waving her hand, she replied, “No use talking about it. It’s just fate—good or bad, high or low, you get what the heavens give, and you carry it. But the day comes when you can’t carry it anymore, then you run out of chances.”

I frowned. Her words sounded strangely meaningful.

She let out a sigh. “So tell me, what did you want from me?”

Guan Zengbin opened his phone and pulled up photos of the bowls. “We know your family used to run the Red Mill Factory. Take a look—is this bowl something your factory made?”

He handed her the phone.

She stared at the pictures for a long moment.

“Yes,” she finally said. “Our factory ran for decades. It was my father’s work. Back then, nothing was automated or mechanical. We made everything by hand, and us women painted the glaze ourselves.”

“So, the designs on these bowls, you hand-painted them?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes, all painted by hand. Later, factories modernized and could do it cheaper, better, so business dried up. But my father was stubborn. Even when it stopped making money, he kept at it until the end, mostly giving bowls away instead of selling them. Eventually, only a few of us kept on—to remember the family business.”

“Do you remember who took or bought these bowls?” I asked.

She touched her nose, thinking hard. “I don’t know. I really don’t. But I do vaguely remember—the bowls were a set of twelve.”

“Twelve?” we all asked in unison.

She nodded earnestly. “I made the set myself, drew all twelve animals of the zodiac. What you have are Rat, Rooster, Dog, Pig—there should be eight more.”

Eight bowls. Eight dead.