The Cousin Arrives (Part Four)

He Lingyu took a deep breath and said to Spinach, “Tie her up and put her in the freezer.”

Shi Jing clearly hadn’t expected this kind of response. She turned and bolted for the inn’s entrance. The three of them stood motionless, watching as Shi Jing reached the door—only to be blocked by Uncle Zhao, who appeared from nowhere. Though he was already up in years, Uncle Zhao was tall and robust from years of physical work, showing no trace of frailty.

He wielded a shovel, his gaze cold.

Just then, Aunt Zhao hurried over, smiling as she announced, “Her accomplice already abandoned her and drove off alone.” She turned to Shi Jing, looking her up and down. “I knew something was off with you yesterday. You look about the same age as Shuimei—how could you be her cousin?”

With a flurry of hands, they bound Shi Jing tightly. The nearest police station was over fifty miles away, and the mountain roads meant it would take the officers at least an hour to arrive.

Shi Jing hadn’t expected that they would really stuff her into the freezer. In truth, the freezer hadn’t worked for ages—it was secondhand, and Shuimei hadn’t bothered to repair it, buying a new one instead. Aunt Zhao had repurposed the old freezer as a storage cabinet, never imagining it would serve such a function today.

Even though the freezer couldn’t chill, its seal was still tight. Within moments of being shut inside, Shi Jing was wailing for mercy.

But all that was Shuimei and the others’ business. He Lingyu didn’t follow them. Her face was expressionless as she stared at the two bells still clamoring on her wrist.

With the police unable to arrive for a while, He Lingyu was alone in the inn’s lobby.

Her gaze slowly swept the room, finally settling on the enormous green plant in the corner that was used to conceal a surveillance camera.

It was a pothos, its long vines coiled around a massive palm post, resembling a small tree.

Originally, this plant stood at the corner of the second floor, but it was He Lingyu’s idea to move it. It had been kept in the shade outside the garage until today, brought in to block the camera.

He Lingyu reached up and undid her ponytail, letting her hair fall loose. With a flick, the metal hair tie uncurling from her hand became a long, slender needle.

The Soul-Piercing Needle.

He Lingyu smiled faintly, her body darting like a flying fish toward the plant. In a flash, the Soul-Piercing Needle struck three times. After a shrill scream, a yellowish shadow emerged from the leaves, tumbled to the floor, and gradually took on human shape.

He Lingyu snorted. “So, you died for money. Lift your head—let me see you.”

The person, pierced by He Lingyu’s Soul-Piercing Needle, couldn’t use any spiritual power for the moment.

The face was grotesquely mangled, features crushed beyond recognition, only a pair of bloodshot eyes glared at He Lingyu with venomous hatred.

He Lingyu picked up a fallen leaf from the floor. It wasn’t pothos, but locust tree.

“I see. So you hitched a ride on the leaf to get in. That’s some skill.”

She circled the person twice, then suddenly laughed. “Didn’t notice before—so you’re a woman. What happened to your face? Wait, you died for money—so it must have been a car accident.”

At the mention of “car accident,” He Lingyu thought of two people: Shi Yini, who died this morning, and Shi Jing from earlier.

But whether their deaths were truly tied to money, He Lingyu couldn’t be sure.

Yellow-page spirits—those suffused with hues of gray, white, yellow, black, red, or blue—mostly died for money. No matter the means, “money” was always at the heart of it.

As soon as He Lingyu finished speaking, the person sobbed, “I was run over by a car! But it wasn’t an accident—it was murder! Murder!”

“So you’re Shi Jing?” He Lingyu asked.

“I am not Shi Jing! It’s because those people, just like you, insisted I was Shi Jing that I’ve become a wandering ghost—five years now, unable to reincarnate!” The woman stopped crying and gnashed her teeth.

She wasn’t Shi Jing. The money her family sent to Shi Jing in the afterlife never reached her; it all benefited passing ghosts instead. Worse, she always lost out to the other spirits and could only watch helplessly as the money went elsewhere.

He Lingyu knew well—there were too many spirits and not enough chances for rebirth. If you had money, you might find another way, but with nothing, you could only wait, year after year.

She had a friend who specialized in such matters.

But by now, He Lingyu already knew who she was.

She was the accident victim the Shi family had mistakenly identified as Shi Jing.

He Lingyu glanced at the wall clock—time was running out.

“What’s your real name? Where are you from?” He Lingyu asked.

The woman began to sob again. “My name is Qian Hui. I’m from County G.”

He Lingyu nodded, then pulled out an ancient-looking ring from under her collar, strung on a leather cord around her neck.

She pointed the ring toward Qian Hui, who was sprawled on the floor. With a thought, Qian Hui’s form vanished in an instant.

He Lingyu tucked the ring away again. She glanced once more at the wall clock—the time had nearly arrived. She sat back behind the counter, waiting for the police.

Ten minutes later, the police arrived and took away the fake Shi Jing, who was so terrified she had lost control of her bladder and bowels.

In just two days, Shuimei and He Lingyu became witnesses for the third time—though this time Shuimei was the victim.

When reporting the crime, Aunt Zhao had already given the authorities the license plate of the fake Shi Jing’s accomplice. As soon as they reached the station, several officers escorted in a young man.

He was tall and slender, his long hair tied back in a small braid, with delicate features that lent him an artistic air.

He Lingyu looked at him, recalling what Zhou Xiaoyun had said about Shi Yini’s ex-boyfriend.

She immediately shared her suspicions with the officers handling the case.

By the time their statements were finished, it was already four in the morning. Both Shuimei and He Lingyu were exhausted and hungry. The duty officers brought them two bowls of instant noodles and some blankets. After eating, they slept on the waiting room benches, covered in the blankets.

When they awoke, dawn had broken.

The officers told them that the fake Shi Jing had confessed everything. Her real name was Li Qing, and she was Shi Jing’s former flatmate. Her accomplice was Ah Feng, a self-styled “artist” who never amounted to much and ended up living off women.

After running away from home, Shi Jing had contacted her ex-boyfriend, Mr. Mo, who gave her a sum of money as compensation.

Shi Jing took the money to Shanghai. With her solid dance background, she found work teaching children’s dance at a training school. At the time, Shi Jing also dreamed of opening her own studio.

Not long after, while taking her students to an event, she met Qian Hui, who was also attending.

Qian Hui was a freelance model—her looks and figure nothing remarkable. She’d been in the city for ten years without making a name for herself.

Qian Hui and Shi Jing quickly became close, renting a place together. Qian Hui even introduced Shi Jing to an MCN company that specialized in cultivating internet celebrities.