Chapter One: The Black Murder Weapon

Fei Qiang turned the key in the lock of his home. When he stepped inside, the hallway light was on, and so was the floor lamp in the living room, glowing that orange color temperature his wife Fang Ran had insisted on buying, saying warmer was better. Her blanket lay folded on the sofa, neatly, and on the coffee table sat a half-finished cup of tea. Everything was normal, so normal it seemed she had simply gone into another room.

The door to the studio was open.

He walked over, stood in the doorway, and saw her.

Fang Ran sat in the chair by the window, hands resting on her knees. Her head was bowed slightly, hair falling down over half her face. She wore that navy blue sweater, the one she wore most often, its collar a little pilled—he'd told her several times to get a new one, but she said this one was comfortable. She sat there quietly, as if asleep.

Fei Qiang called out to her.

She didn't move.

He walked in and brushed the hair away from her face.

A knife was lodged in her right eye. Black handle, buried about two inches deep, steady, not trembling. Her left eye was closed, her lips slightly parted, her face showing no pain, no struggle—an expression too peaceful for someone dead.

Fei Qiang's gaze moved downward. The left leg of her trousers was soaked through, blood seeping from the inner thigh, running down the chair leg to pool on the floor by her feet—black, its edges already dried. Femoral artery. One strike.

He crouched down, hands on his knees, not touching her.

Outside, the streetlight illuminated the orange curtains from within, light falling across her face, across the handle of the knife. The walls of the studio were hung with paintings, deep reds and browns, intense, hanging silently behind her.

Fei Qiang recognized that knife.

He crouched there, looking at her for a long time, then stood up, walked to the door, and dialed a colleague's number.

The call connected. He said, Old Zhou, come to my place.

Old Zhou asked, What happened.

He said, The fifth one.

Old Zhou arrived quickly, bringing a forensic examiner and two investigators.

Footsteps began sounding in the hallway. Fei Qiang sat on the living room sofa and heard the door pushed open, heard Old Zhou come in, walk to the studio doorway, pause a moment, say nothing. After a while, Old Zhou turned, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing gently.

Fei Qiang said, In there.

Old Zhou nodded and led the others inside.

Flashes began going off in the studio, one after another. The orange floor lamp was carried out into the hallway, replaced with the cold white light used for forensic examination; the white light leaked out through the crack of the door, casting a cold-toned edge across the hallway floor. Fei Qiang sat on the sofa, watching that strip of light, not moving.

When the medical examiner came out, Fei Qiang stood and asked the time of death.

The examiner said, Around eleven last night.

Fei Qiang said nothing, sat back down on the sofa.

Old Zhou came out of the studio and sat down across from him. The two of them sat facing each other for a while, neither speaking. Finally Old Zhou spoke, his voice low.

He said, Brother Qiang, you know the rules.

Fei Qiang said, I know.

Old Zhou said, Since the case involves a family member, you need to recuse yourself. You can't take part in the investigation until it's closed. The higher-ups' idea is that you go home and rest first—I'll tell you the moment there's any progress.

Fei Qiang said, This is my home.

Old Zhou fell silent for a moment, then said, Then go stay somewhere else for now—relatives, friends, anywhere.

Fei Qiang didn't move. He looked at the cup of cold tea on the coffee table for a while, then said, I'll leave once you're done here.

Old Zhou glanced at him and said nothing more.

They worked in the apartment for nearly two more hours—photographing, collecting samples, taking notes, discussing in low voices. Occasionally someone would come out to ask Fei Qiang a few questions, and he answered each one, his voice steady, as if speaking of someone else's family matter. Near dawn, everyone gradually left. Old Zhou came out last, paused at the door, and turned to look back at him.

He said, Brother Qiang, my condolences.

Fei Qiang nodded.

The door closed.

The apartment fell quiet again, quieter than before anyone had arrived, quiet as if something had been carried away along with them. The cold white lights were gone; the orange floor lamp was moved back to its corner, and its glow once again warmed the living room, just as before.

Fei Qiang sat on the sofa, not moving.

The studio door was closed—Old Zhou had shut it for him before leading everyone out. He looked at that door for a long time, then stood up, walked over, and pushed it open.

The studio looked just as it had. The chair was still in its place, the bloodstain still on the floor—only the knife was gone, taken away as evidence. The paintings still hung on the walls, deep red and brown, appearing very dark in the bleak morning light. The curtains hadn't been drawn; outside, the sky had begun to show a touch of gray-white, the streetlight not yet extinguished, its orange glow mixing with the pale sky into a color hard to name.

He walked around the studio once, without purpose, just walking.

He stopped beside a row of easels against the wall.

It was a very small painting, the canvas no bigger than a sheet of A4 paper, mounted in a simple wooden frame. The image showed a dining table with a pot of fish soup on it, the dominant colors a warm yellow and white; only in the corner of the background, half-hidden in shadow, was the kitchen sink, touched with a faint red stained by the setting sun.

Fei Qiang stood before that painting for a while, and remembered that day.

It had happened two years ago. Hoping to help his wife recover her eyesight, he had bought a live fish at the market. Since it was his first time handling a live fish, he'd made a complete mess of things, and the kitchen had been thrown into chaos. When he carried the fish soup out of the kitchen, his wife, who had been waiting by the kitchen door the whole time, smiled faintly. "Thank you, husband."

That night, she walked into the studio—whether moved by Fei Qiang's thoughtfulness, or because the fish soup had somehow worked on her eyesight, he didn't know—but it was the first time since her car accident that she had picked up a paintbrush.