Xiajun bit the tip of his thumb as he drove, his mind racing.
House#54, Terrace Street, he kept reminding himself. House#54. House#54. House#54. House#54. House#54.
He disliked interviewing people, and particularly dangerous people at that, in their homes. Being in someone else's house makes him feel like a stranger, as if he's trespassing where he's not supposed to be. And he felt extremely vulnerable.
Xiajun sighed. Then suddenly he remembered the texts sent by his uncle.
He quickly turned on his phone, and finding Zhang Long's number, he pressed and waited for someone to pick up. At once, there was a click and some disturbance from the end of the line.
"Hello?"
"Uncle Zhang?" Xiajun said, frowning. "What happened to your voice? Have you been crying?"
Zhang Long groaned and said something that Xiajun did not understand. Then came a series of sounds, as if someone was sobbing.