Chapter 41: Double-Blind Game

At 3:41 a.m., the air conditioner in the library’s tech room was still humming. Su Wan’s bamboo spatula gently pried open the spine of the third volume of “Records of Yong’an.” Under the warm yellow lamp, the fibers of the rice paper shimmered pearly white. Her finger, dipped in a bit of paste, moved three times slower than when she usually restored ancient books—for what she was embedding between the layers now was not a forged cash flow chart, but the original dashcam tape from 1998.

The edge of the tape case was sticky with paste she had just brushed on, the warmth reminding her of the grip on her wrist when Song Zhao saved her twenty years ago.

“The glue must be thin, or the spine will bulge.” Song Zhao’s voice came from behind, hoarse from staying up late.

He stood by the server, the police badge glinting coldly in the dark, his right hand repeatedly stroking the holster at his hip.

The holster, worn at the edges, was something he’d dug out from his locker before suspension. “This time, we’re not catching mice. We’re luring the snake from its hole.”

Su Wan paused with her bamboo spatula and looked up to see his Adam’s apple bob.

The group photo found three days ago in the restoration room was still on her phone—Chen Mo’s badge gleaming new in the photo, forming an uncanny overlap and disconnect with Song Zhao, who at this moment stood in the shadows.

She lowered her head and continued patching. The brush made a faint “creak” as it passed over the tape. “Dr. Zheng’s hypnosis got Lin Wei to say ‘the root of the umbrella frame.’ That means they urgently need the recording.”

“So we give it to them.” Song Zhao’s thumb pressed the holster’s clasp, feeling the sharp line of metal. “Dong Lan’s digital watermark triggers tracking during scanning. The moment they take the book, we catch their trail.”

Suddenly, the technical room door swung open. Dong Lan squeezed in, hugging her laptop, her hair damp with the chill of the machine room. “The watermark program is embedded. As soon as that book is opened and scanned, the location coordinates will ping straight to my phone.” She placed the laptop on the table, blue screen glow deepening the shadows under her eyes. “The Provincial Supervision Division checked my communications half an hour ago—they’re guarding against insiders.”

Song Zhao’s thumb stopped on the clasp.

He recalled the miniature bug in the air vent three days ago, the thumbprint on Ah Zhen’s nape Su Wan had mentioned, and the masked father in Chen Mo’s daughter’s drawing.

“So we have to move faster.” He tugged at the holster, the metal clasp snapping open. “Before dawn, Ah Zhen takes the book. By three in the afternoon, I want to see the car’s trajectory.”

Su Wan pressed the final restoration paper layer down, smoothing it gently with a bristle brush.

When the spine was restored, her fingertip lingered on the characters for “Yong’an”—the old name of Jiangcheng, and the title of the county annals from the year Song Zhao’s father, Song Jianguo, had his accident.

“All done.” She slid the book over to Song Zhao. “The ‘evidence’ they want is inside.”

At 9:50 a.m., the blinds in the foundation’s psychological counseling room were tightly drawn.

Dr. Zheng’s white coat cuff was smudged with ink. He sat at the edge of a pale beige sofa, gently stroking Lin Wei’s forehead, his voice as soft as shredded cotton. “Xiao Wei, you’re the best. Close your eyes and tell uncle—what is Song Zhao investigating lately?”

Lin Wei’s lashes trembled, her pupils wide and glassy.

She wore a faded pink cotton dress, her knees still bearing the bruises from yesterday—a mark left when Ah Zhen held her and she bumped the table corner.

“He said…” Her voice drifted from a faraway place. “The evidence is at ‘the root of the umbrella frame’… and there’s a recording… hidden in a book.”

Dr. Zheng’s fingers paused atop her head.

He gazed into the girl’s hollow eyes, recalling how, under hypnosis last week, Chen Mo gritted his teeth and refused to say a word.

“Good girl.” He pulled a recorder from his suit pocket and pressed record, his toe nudging the phone under the table—the message screen frozen on “Target confirmed, pick up tonight,” the send button flashing coldly in the sunlight.

At 12:18 p.m., as the library’s closing bell rang, Ah Zhen’s cleaning cart stopped punctually at the ancient books restoration room.

Today she wore a deep blue apron, the pale purple bruise on her nape more pronounced than yesterday, like a stubborn stain.

When Su Wan handed her the “Records of Yong’an,” she felt the chill of Ah Zhen’s fingertips—cold as metal fresh from the fridge.

“Sorry to trouble you again.” Su Wan smiled, catching a glimpse of a half-exposed band-aid in Ah Zhen’s apron pocket.

Ah Zhen said nothing. As she slid the book into the cleaning cart’s compartment, the wheels made a faint “creak.”

When she turned, Su Wan saw red marks at the edge of the bruise, as if someone had clawed her desperately trying to pry the hand away.

Fifteen minutes later, the sound of a car engine echoed in the library’s alley.

Dong Lan stared at her computer screen—tracking software’s green dot moved along West Ring Road, finally stopping at the coordinates of the abandoned printing factory in the city’s west.

She grabbed her phone, knuckles whitening. “The fish is in the net. The location is the printing factory. Signal relays and surveillance servers are all inside.”

At 6:27 p.m., Song Zhao’s tactical knife sliced a gap in the factory’s iron door.

The stench of mold and rust rushed in, and he could hear his own heartbeat—this was his first time in a tactical vest since suspension, the hard edge of the bulletproof gear digging into his ribs, a sharp reminder: “You’re still a police officer.”

Tech team’s Xiao Li gestured, and Song Zhao crouched inside, flashlight beam sweeping the walls—ten servers piled in the corner, indicator lights glowing like a cluster of red eyes.

When the USB for copying data was plugged in, footsteps echoed outside.

Song Zhao instinctively pressed his gun, spotting a man in a black jacket emerging from the shadows, clutching the “Records of Yong’an.”

“The contact?” Xiao Li whispered.

Song Zhao remained silent, noticing the man had an empty holster at his waist—someone was faster than them.

“Don’t move!” Xiao Li barked, but gunfire split the air before the words finished.

Blood blossomed from the contact’s forehead just as Song Zhao instinctively dragged Xiao Li behind cover.

Drops splattered onto the book’s cover, sudden red petals blooming.

A man in plain clothes stepped from the shadows, his gun still smoking—it was Chen Mo.

Song Zhao’s breath caught.

He saw the white at Chen Mo’s temples, the fresh scar on his left cheek, the trembling in his gun hand.

Chen Mo’s barrel slowly swung toward him—three seconds, five seconds, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Then Chen Mo turned sideways, and a miniature recorder clattered at Song Zhao’s feet.

“Don’t make me…” Chen Mo’s voice was rasping, like sandpaper, “really become your enemy.”

He turned and dashed into the ventilation shaft, metal echoing with a clang.

Xiao Li tried to pursue, but Song Zhao held him back.

He bent to pick up the recorder, his fingers feeling the metal’s warmth—the same as the training gun at the police academy, slick with the sweat of Chen Mo’s palm.

At 8:14 p.m., the interrogation room at the city police bureau was glaringly lit.

Song Zhao plugged the USB into the player, and three familiar voices exploded: “Director Lin’s project, we’re backing it for sure.” “Demolition compensation, do it as discussed.” “Deputy Mayor Zhou, I’ll handle smoothing things out.”

Disciplinary team veteran Zhang’s teacup shattered on the floor.

Dong Lan stood by the window, her phone screen lit—the Provincial Supervision Division had seventeen missed calls.

“And this.” Song Zhao pressed another play button—Lin Wei’s sleep-talk, mingling with tears: “He said, if Daddy doesn’t behave… I won’t see Mommy again…”

The room fell silent enough to hear the ticking of the second hand.

Dong Lan rubbed her nape. “Do we keep chasing Chen Mo?”

Song Zhao gazed into the night outside the window.

He recalled the recorder Chen Mo had tossed, the young man who smiled at him on the shooting range in the old photo, and the “masked father” in Xiao Ya’s drawings.

“He’s not a fugitive,” he said. “He’s a living witness.”

Meanwhile, in a rented apartment in the city’s south, eight-year-old Xiao Ya was bent over the coffee table, drawing.

She colored two men with crayons, standing side by side outside a fire scene, holding up a red ledger.

Tilting her head, she scrawled “Daddies” across the cover.

Moonlight outside stretched across the paper, pulling the last stroke of “Dad” long—a light reaching into tomorrow.

At 2 a.m., the door lock of the technical isolation zone beeped.

Dong Lan entered, hugging her laptop and clutching the miniature recorder Song Zhao had given her.

She set it on the console, the metal casing striking a clear ring.

The surveillance camera’s red light flickered overhead, like a wakeful eye.

She drew a deep breath, fingers hovering above the play button—this time, what she was about to hear might finally answer the twenty-year mystery.