Chapter 2: Rust on the Ribs of the Umbrella

The torrential rain stopped at three in the morning, but the hum of the air conditioner in the evidence analysis room persisted. Song Zhao was curled up in the corner between a machine and a filing cabinet, the cold sweat on the back of his neck soaking through his collar. In his palm, the silver earring’s metallic texture glimmered dully as he rubbed it.

He closed his eyes, the scene from the rainy alley still searing his retinas—a black umbrella embroidered with the words “Lin’s,” swaying beneath the downpour, and the blinding high beams from three years ago before the car accident, now merging in his memory into a chaotic haze of light.

“This isn’t an illusion,” he murmured to the empty room, the taste of iron rising in his mouth as he swallowed.

The first time he triggered the “Eye of Truth” last night, he wondered if it was a side effect from his concussion. But the second time, as he touched the earring and could count even the rust patterns on the umbrella’s ribs through the curtain of rain, he realized this was the only clue he could grasp since his suspension.

He fished a crumpled evidence log from his trouser pocket and scribbled on the back with a fountain pen: “Soil at body dump doesn’t match → true crime scene is the western drainage ditch; Lin’s black umbrella is key evidence; Zhao Zhenbang checked cold cases—” The pen pierced through the paper. “What is he trying to cover up?”

As the first pale light crept through the window, Song Zhao took off his police badge and buried it at the very bottom of his drawer.

He slung his old trench coat over his shoulder and stared at his own bluish eye sockets in the mirror, recalling the spittle flying from Zhao Zhenbang’s mouth as he slammed the table yesterday: “Song Zhao, you’re not even as good as a community officer now!” So be it.

He tugged at his collar, the metal button pressing painfully into his collarbone.

The concrete ground in the old industrial district of the western city was still slick with rain, the abandoned drainage ditch reeking of rot. Song Zhao stepped cautiously on the mossy flagstones, spotting the “Lin’s Umbrella Repair” stand at the seventh alley corner—the edges of the tin roof rusted and curling, patched with plastic sheets where it leaked. Seven or eight umbrellas awaited repair inside, the red-painted characters “Lin’s” on their ribs blurred by rain.

“Master,” Song Zhao bent to enter, the musty dampness interwoven with the sweet scent of waxed thread filling his nose.

The old man was squinting as he threaded a needle, the bamboo needle rising and falling through black umbrella cloth. Hearing the voice, he glanced up, his clouded eyes suddenly shrinking to pinpricks.

“Do you still make the old-style black umbrellas?” Song Zhao produced his phone, bringing up a photo of the earring. “The fabric pattern—it’s very similar to evidence from a case seven years ago.”

The old man’s hand trembled, the bamboo needle clattering into the tin box.

Only then did Song Zhao notice that half the man’s right ear was missing, a scar running from behind his ear down to his jaw. “Haven’t made those in a long time,” his voice rasped like sandpaper. “Lin’s Umbrella Factory went bankrupt ten years ago. All the fabric was sold off as scrap.” He jerked his chin toward a pile of tattered cloth in the corner, mold blooming on the gray fabric like black flowers.

Song Zhao’s gaze swept the walls—one whole side was covered in crayon drawings: rainy alleys, black umbrellas, little girls in red dresses holding balloons. At the top, a tilted black umbrella was drawn, the figure beneath it a blur, but the words “Lin’s” were traced over three times in fluorescent marker on the umbrella's ribs.

In the bottom-right corner, scrawled unevenly, was the name “Xiaoman.”

“Is Xiaoman your granddaughter?” he asked, pointing to the drawing.

The old man was about to reply when a clear bicycle bell chimed outside.

A young woman with a ponytail entered, carrying a sketchbook. She paused when she saw Song Zhao. She was half a head shorter than him, a hearing aid hooked behind her ear, her fingers moving swiftly in front of her chest to sign, “Who are you?”

“I’m a police officer,” Song Zhao replied in sign language, his movements awkward, like rusty gears.

The girl’s pupils contracted sharply. She turned to pull the old man away.

He hurriedly pulled out the photo of the earring, holding it in front of her.

Her hands froze in midair.

She rushed to her sketchbook, flipping through the pages with a flurry of paper, finally tearing one out and slapping it into Song Zhao’s palm.

In the drawing, beneath a black umbrella stood a man in a sanitation worker’s uniform, bending over as he dragged a woman’s leg toward the drainage ditch. “Lin’s” gleamed on the umbrella’s ribs.

On the back, in crooked pencil: “He stepped in a mud puddle, the footprint was just like Dad’s repaired umbrella.”

Song Zhao’s breath quickened.

He took out his phone to photograph the drawing, but just as he aimed the lens, an engine roared in the distance.

A black SUV crept past the alley mouth, its license plate caked in mud. The passenger window cracked open just enough for a sinister gaze to slice into the back of Song Zhao’s neck like an ice pick.

“Zhao Zhenbang’s driver,” he sneered inwardly. Three years ago, when he’d been run down by a black SUV, he’d felt that same gaze from the passenger seat.

By the time he looked up, the car was already gone, leaving only a choking whiff of gasoline in its wake.

“Xiaoman, pack up,” the old man said suddenly, tugging at the girl’s sleeve, his voice trembling.

Xiaoman glared warily at Song Zhao, swiftly stuffing her sketchbook into a canvas bag and supporting the old man as they left for the alley’s end.

Song Zhao watched them disappear into the morning mist, the drawing in his palm now creased and crumpled.

The rare books section of the library was thick with the scent of ink. Reaching for “A History of Jiang City’s Light Industry” on the top shelf, Su Wan’s hair brushed across the back of Song Zhao’s hand, carrying the faint fragrance of sandalwood soap.

“Lin’s Umbrella Factory restructured and went bankrupt in 1998. The original site is now a parking garage in the city center.” She flipped through the yellowed pages, her finger pausing. “In the 2013 demolition compensation list, there’s a Lin Jianguo—refused to sign, died of a heart attack three months later.”

Song Zhao’s finger glided down the list, stopping abruptly—Lin Jianguo’s son, Lin Xiaojun, convicted of intentional injury in 2011, received a suspended sentence. His DNA was never entered into the database.

He recalled the autopsy report from the seven-year-old female corpse case: skin tissue under the victim’s nails, Y-chromosome match to an unidentified male relative.

“It’s him,” he murmured. “The sanitation worker in Xiaoman’s drawing is Lin Xiaojun. He might have mistaken the victim for someone from the demolition office.”

Su Wan’s fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up community visit records from 2013: “Three days before Lin Jianguo’s death, someone saw him arguing with a man in a sanitation uniform at the drainage ditch.” She looked up, the beauty mark at the corner of her eye shifting. “Zhao Zhenbang was a consultant for the demolition office at the time.”

Song Zhao’s temples throbbed.

That night, he scanned the earring photo, soil analysis report, and Lin Xiaoman’s drawing onto a USB drive, then sent them to the city bureau’s inspection team via the encrypted email Dr. Chen had given him.

Finally, he added: “The killer’s shoe print matches the rust pattern on Lin’s umbrella ribs. There is evidence hidden in the drainage ditch compartment.”

By noon the next day, Song Zhao stood outside the police cordon, watching as the medical examiner lifted a skeleton from beneath the drainage ditch cover.

As Lin Xiaojun was led to the police car, he spat in Zhao Zhenbang’s direction. “I should’ve killed that bastard covering for the demolition office a long time ago!”

At the press conference, Zhao Zhenbang’s face was even redder than the day before, veins pulsing at his temple like earthworms. “This case was solved by our internal review…” Reporters thrust microphones, pressing for details. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and after a long moment, he managed only, “No comment.”

As Song Zhao turned to leave, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

It was a message from Su Wan: “I got the surveillance from the south highway entrance, June 17, 2020. A friend at the provincial library helped.” He touched the USB drive in his pocket, feeling its warmth seep through the fabric.

Sunlight broke through the clouds in the distance, casting a thin gold line into his pupils.

Deep in the night, the library back room was silent, the old sofa’s springs creaking. Song Zhao curled up on it, the cold blue glow of his phone screen outlining his tense jaw. The blanket Su Wan had draped over him had slipped to his feet, and there was half a cup of cold water left on the coffee table.

At 5:50 a.m., as the first light tinged the sky, his phone suddenly buzzed—message after message, a rapid drumbeat.

Squinting, he reached for the phone. As the screen lit up, a blurred surveillance screenshot popped up: June 17, 2020, 23:47, south highway entrance—a black SUV driving against traffic, its passenger turning to face the camera. Though the image was unclear, Song Zhao recognized the face—it was Zhao Zhenbang.

His phone was still vibrating, his finger hovering above the screen when he heard the back room door gently creak open.

Su Wan stood in the doorway, arms full of files, morning light glinting on her tousled hair. “I had someone restore the footage, and—”

Ding—

Another message appeared on Song Zhao’s phone.

As he looked down, the morning light swept across his pupils, a faint golden streak flashing in his eyes and vanishing in an instant.

Foreshadowing the end: At six in the morning, Song Zhao woke curled on the old sofa in the library back room, his phone vibrating incessantly.