Chapter 221: Silk

It had been a long time since they last met.

She was still so thin. Her newly cut short hair made her look fresher and brighter than last time.

Heard she was seeing a doctor now—no, more like "dating" him, though the word inexplicably caused a knot of discomfort to form in Old He's chest.

That doctor was quite a catch. Old He had checked him out privately: graduated from a prestigious university, divorced for many years, one daughter already married. He had a solid reputation in his field, and was handsome enough to be considered a passable match for her.

"You're busy with work and not great with appliances. I happened to be free today. Mom... my mom suggested I just come over and show you," she said, stepping inside. Her eyes quickly swept over the messy, dirty state of the room, then she calmly guided the workers to the balcony to install the washing machine.

The worker was experienced and finished quickly.

"You always used top-loaders before. This smart one is a bit different to use, but it's actually very simple. Let me show you once," she said, walking briskly to the bathroom. To his surprise, she scooped up the pile of dirty clothes he'd stashed in a corner.

"Hey... I'll do that, I'll do it... it's dirty..." Old He stammered, grabbing the pile from her. He rushed to the washing machine, stuffed the embarrassing bundle inside, and slammed the door shut.

She didn't stop him, just followed calmly and knelt down to demonstrate. "See? I've set it up for you. Just press this button each time. It adds detergent, washes the clothes, and then dries them for you. That way, you can take them out and put them straight in the cupboard. No more forgetting to hang them out and having them go moldy."

Up close, he could still see the faint sadness in her eyes.

"Okay, okay, okay. Great. Yeah, I always forget to hang my clothes... they get moldy... Smart things are good. I'm just behind the times, don't know how to use this or that," Old He agreed rapidly. The doorbell rang again.

This time it was the takeout.

"Those things have too many additives. Eating them too often isn't good for you in the long run," she said mildly. She was very health-conscious. Before the divorce, Old He had hardly ever eaten takeout.

"Maybe I'll make you some noodles? I don't have anything else on anyway," she suggested naturally.

The last time she'd made noodles was on Old He's birthday. She'd come with their son. He hadn't prepared anything, so she'd cooked three bowls herself.

The deliciousness of those noodles was a memory Old He treasured to this day.

Old He nodded eagerly, smoothing his hair back repeatedly with his hands, as if this would not only improve his appearance but also calm his agitated, nervous heart.

He followed her into the kitchen, found the noodles, and obediently ran downstairs at her request to buy eggs, baby bok choy, oil, salt, and soy sauce—he hardly ever cooked, and the condiments in his kitchen were long past usable.

When he returned upstairs, the kitchen was spotless. She'd cleaned it.

She'd always been tidy and hardworking since childhood. Her parents started their business when she was young; the family wasn't well-off back then, and she was often left to her own devices, becoming independent early. Later, when life improved and they hired a housekeeper, she didn't need to do chores anymore, but she kept those habits.

The noodles were on the table, fragrant and steaming.

Her cooking had always been excellent. She didn't need many seasonings to create unforgettable flavors.

But Old He could only manage a few bites before a lump in his throat stopped him—she stood nearby, chatting mildly about their son who was far away abroad. Then, mildly, she mentioned she might be going abroad herself in about six months.

Naturally, because of that doctor. Old He remembered the guy was some kind of medical PhD, often went abroad for exchanges, and his daughter lived overseas.

Heard the guy had even taken foreign citizenship.

So her going along was logical.

That was "family reunion," he supposed.

"Good, great, that's great. You two... seem well-suited..." Old He mumbled, head down, forcing himself to keep eating the noodles, though he couldn't taste them anymore.

Wasn't this the outcome he had to face? They'd been divorced for years. Someone as good as her couldn't stay single forever. She needed a man who loved and respected her to care for her in her later years.

He should say more words of blessing. A man should be broad-minded, magnanimous. Besides, she hadn't done anything wrong. The useless, incompetent one was him.

But Old He couldn't utter another word.

The case of his sister-in-law remained unsolved. This lingering, unresolved case, and that unfortunate person who would never come back, stood like a thick wall, blocking him on this side. He still remembered his bold declaration when he handed her the divorce papers: "Until I find the real killer, He Zhisheng will never come to see you! Because I have no face! No face to see you, no face to see Mom and Dad, no face to see Minghao!"

But he still hadn't found the killer.

The powerlessness of knowing exactly who the murderer was but lacking the evidence to nail him down was like countless strands of seaweed, tangling around him, trapping him underwater—unable to break free, unable to tear loose, unable to cut through.

Xu Ruyi probably felt the same way about Qin Guan. That's why she was willing to go to any lengths, to participate, to scheme step by step, even to do something as terrible as moving a body—Old He slurped the noodles, sniffed, stopped trying to eat slowly to prolong the moment, and instead shoveled large mouthfuls into his already congested stomach. If he weren't a policeman, if he were just an ordinary citizen, perhaps he would have walked the same path as Xu Ruyi years ago.

She watched him quietly from across the table, her lips parting slightly as if she wanted to say something. In the end, she said nothing. Then the washing machine chimed. She quickly walked over, escaping the awkwardness at the table. "The clothes are done. I'll take them out for you. You'll forget again once you get busy."

"No, no, I'll do it," Old He hurriedly dropped his chopsticks. "I won't forget. Nothing much tonight, I'll—"

He heard her soft, dismayed "Oh dear."

In her hands was a dark blue silk pajama top—a birthday gift his junior officers had pooled money to buy him.

"Silk can't go in the machine," she said carefully, separating the garment from the others. "And definitely not in the dryer. Silk can't take heat. It shrinks, and the color changes."

She had always been meticulous and particular about such things.

Indeed, the top looked slightly misshapen.

Old He felt a pang of regret too. Not so much for the garment itself, but for the heartfelt gesture from his team.

He took the pajama top, staring blankly at the distorted shoulder seam. Suddenly, the inexplicable silk nightgown on Qi Min's corpse flashed before his eyes—the unexplained color change, the brittle fibers.

He had consulted professionals before and concluded the gown might have been damaged by high heat during transport, that Qi Min had accidentally bought a defective item.

But that wasn't it.

Old He stared at the pajama top in his hands, then looked up at the smart washing machine with its dryer function. A bolt of lightning seemed to strike his mind—

In an instant, a detail buried in the massive investigation, completely unnoticed before, exploded in his thoughts. The pieces he hadn't been able to figure out for so long cascaded down like bamboo splits.

"I know! I know how it happened!"