Chapter 349: Some Won, Some Withdrew

March 10, 9:00 p.m. Only the last few pages of Volume Five remained.

The desk lamp sat low, its light covering only the open page, the paper edges yellowed around it. The nine volumes of notes stood stacked at the corner of the desk. Volume One, wrapped in old newspaper, sat on top; Volume Seven had long since been shoved to the bottom of the pile.

The last case was done. In the page footer, a line of small writing marked the date the money arrived—much later than the judgment. Flipping back, a few pages had "see volume X" scribbled in the margins. Some names were circled, with a light line drawn through them, pressed just hard enough to leave a mark but not break the paper. At the bottom of one page, a single line stood alone: The client said, forget it.

Two pages earlier, another margin note, written smaller than all the rest: Withdrawing is still a resolution. Write down exactly what they said. Don't put words in their mouth.

She held the last pages up to the lamp, checking that no other paper was tucked between them, then closed the cover.

Inside the front cover of Volume One was a folded sheet with four columns: volume, page range, page count, and what was inside. The top four rows were all filled, each one more cramped than the last. She bit off the pen cap and added a fifth row—copying the page range from the two lines of small writing on the spine, flipping to the last page to copy the count. The "what was inside" column took the longest: one line for cases finished, a new line for cases not. At the end of the second line, her pen paused before touching down.

Zhi'an emerged from the inner room to refill his water. Passing the desk, he glanced at the open notebook.

"Those people in his notebook—what happened to them in the end?"

"Some won. Some withdrew."

"What does withdrew mean?"

"Means they stopped fighting."

"Why did they stop fighting?"

She set the pen down. "Some couldn't afford it. Some had family working in the other side's factory."

Zhi'an stopped, cup in hand, water undrunk.

"The ones who withdrew—did they get any money?"

"Some did. Sign a paper, take a payment, go home."

"So that's what the three thousand in the settlement agreement was."

She didn't answer. The desk lamp lit the table of contents, where the empty half of the second row showed white.

"What about Ge Xiaoyu's grandmother—her page?" he asked.

"She didn't sign."

"So we're not withdrawing on this one, right?"

"This kind of thing doesn't go away because one person signs a paper," she said. "Once it's in court, you have to see it through."

Zhi'an carried his cup back toward the inner room, stopping at the door. "Sis, the ones who withdrew—did anyone ever go back and ask?"

"No."

The door didn't close all the way. A strip of lamplight slipped through the gap beneath it.

She remembered what Cen Hong had said on the phone on March 2: her mother had spent years sitting outside the courier hub every afternoon, waiting for someone to come ask. People had come to ask. The stool still got carried outside every day.

"Sis." The inner door opened half a foot again. "Do you write things down too?"

"Yes."

"Same way he did."

"Thinner than his." She spun the pen half a turn between her fingers. "He wrote for over ten years. This notebook of mine is barely two."

[Thud. What he wrote down—some of it turned into money, some into nothing but a line of writing.]

She closed the table of contents, tucked it back inside the front cover of Volume One, and pushed Volume Five back into the stack. Volume Six sat right beneath it, its spine sticking out half an inch. She didn't pull it.

* * *

March 11, 10:00 a.m. Her phone rang on the desk. The screen showed a landline number, the name one she had saved herself.

"Lawyer Shen." Kang Wenying cleared her throat. "March 20, morning."

"I've got it written down."

"My brother went yesterday. The headstone's up. The characters are chiseled in, deep—not the kind that's stuck on."

"Good."

"Director He says she'll come with me." Kang Wenying paused. "She called me last night—earlier than I would have called her."

"She's better at remembering dates than I am."

"Will you come?"

"Yes."

"My brother says to come early that day." She paused. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

"Say whatever you want to say. Nothing's fine too."

"I dug that ruling out from the bottom of the trunk. It's been pressed flat for months, corners a bit curled." Kang Wenying's voice dropped. "I'll bring it that day. Show them."

"Bring it."

There was wind on her end, someone shouting in the distance. Kang Wenying cleared her throat again. "I'll hang up then. My parents haven't been together all these years. This time, they'll be together."

After the call, she went downstairs.

The back kitchen door was open. He Xiufen sat trimming vegetables, a basin of greens on the bench beside her, another basin soaking wood-ear mushrooms. She relayed the message without looking up.

"She called me last night. Said the date three times, like she was afraid I'd forget."

"On the twentieth, morning, I'll go with you."

"Don't schedule anything." He Xiufen snapped off a yellowed leaf and dropped it into the bucket by her feet. "Wear dark colors. Nothing red. It's their day."

"I know."

He Xiufen lifted her eyes. "She even asked me whether to bring incense. I said bring it or don't—what matters is showing up."

"She asked that too?"

"Asked twice." He Xiufen pressed the greens down in the basin. "That kind of person is terrified of making a mistake. A simple sentence turns over in her head all night. Don't correct her that day. Whatever she says, just agree."

"I will."

"That day at the courthouse gate, she unbuttoned and rebuttoned her coat three times." He Xiufen set the basin in the sink. "Don't rush someone like that. The more you rush, the slower she gets."

"I won't rush."

"That's right." He Xiufen shook the water off her hands. "I'll fire up the stove early that morning. Come down and eat something hot first. Going out on an empty stomach to handle things—doesn't look right."

* * *

3:00 p.m. The landline upstairs rang.

Lu Jibai was closest. He picked up. "Zhengping Law Firm." He listened for a long time, saying only "yes" once in the middle, and at the end said "noted" before setting the receiver down.

"From the branch bureau," he said. "The minibus lead—the plate's a clone."

"Cloned."

"The registered owner is outside the province. The vehicle left his hands long ago. That line's dead, but they're still working it." He pulled the kraft envelope from between the steel cabinet and the wall—the one from the sample-switching case, its front marked with the source of the March 3 phone call—turned it over, and wrote line by line: date, time, caller, exact words.

She stood across the desk, watching. He finished, set the pen down. Over at the table by the window, Li Huilan looked up and asked, "If the plate's cloned, then the van can't be traced?"

"It can. Takes work." Lu Jibai said. "Go through them one by one."

"Then go through them one by one." Li Huilan lowered her head again.

"He also asked whether the original card we shot on February 24 had been overwritten."

"What did you tell him?"

"The original card is sealed at the notary office, untouched. Two copies—one with the court, one with the branch bureau. We don't have one here."

"Did he write that down?"

"He said he did." He stood the envelope upright, leaning it against the desk edge. "Handle everything according to what's in the record."

"Did he ask anything else?"

"He asked who was in the room when the camera was set up that day."

"Court personnel, the notary, the appraiser, Director Fu from the village." She listed them off. "And those two bent iron bars."

The page in the notebook began with February 25, the first line at the top reading "2:38 a.m.," then line after line down to 8:40 a.m., when Judge Luo invalidated Group B on the spot, followed by the afternoon plant inspection. She added today's line beneath them, wrote the date, and in the source column wrote "Call from branch bureau, Lu received." As she finished, someone downstairs called out for scrap collection, a tricycle bell ringing twice.

"A cloned plate means someone planned to swap plates," he said.

"Swapping plates means not wanting to be recognized."

"Get away with it once, you'll want to use it a second time."

She thought of February 25, 2:58 a.m.—those two taillights on the village road, turning east and gone. The camera had only caught the rear of the vehicle. No plate.

"If we hadn't set up that camera that day—" she began.

"It was set up. It was." He slid the pen back into the holder. "The camera was paid for by Qinghe. Hu Yongnian photographed it being installed. Right now it's the only thing in this case that can't change its story."

"So can this still be traced?"

"The investigators have their own methods." He said, "Our job is to leave every step of February 24 on paper: what item, who sealed it, who signed, what time it passed into whose hands. Those records still exist."

"They do."

He placed the envelope in the top compartment of the cabinet, closed the door, and slid the key into the lock, turning it half a turn.

"On the twentieth, morning, you go to the cemetery," he said. "I'll be here at the office."

"You're not coming."

"Director He goes with her, you go with them. I'll be here waiting for Master Qiu's call." He pulled the key out. "If that drive speaks, I want to be here."

* * *

Night, at home. The stack of nine volumes still sat at the desk corner.

She washed the dishes, dried her hands, picked up her phone, and found Master Qiu's number. She typed in the box: Master Qiu, how far have you gotten?

Read it. Deleted it.

Typed again: Sorry to bother you.

Read it, moved the cursor back, held backspace until it was gone. The cursor blinked in the empty box.

She remembered Master Qiu's rules: test line by line, record each line tested. Write down everything tried, and if nothing works, write that too. On the ninth he'd said, if it breaks in a few days, he'd write it; if it doesn't, he'd write that as well. Standing at the door asking "how far along are you" wasn't going to get an answer he'd be willing to give.

Downstairs, the roll-up shutter came all the way down with a clatter of metal. She looked up, set her phone face-down on the desk; before she turned it over, that unsent message was still glowing.

The stack was right at hand. Volume Six sat beneath Volume Five—pulling it out halfway would bring the five volumes above crashing down. She pressed her hand against the pile once. Didn't pull.

In her notebook she planned two lines for tomorrow: morning, sort out the Qinghe receipts; afternoon, make another call about the legal-aid appointment letter for Li Huilan's case.

Before turning off the light, she counted the days: the checklist had gone in on the afternoon of the ninth. Today was the eleventh.

[Thud. What's locked, once opened, is opened. The one who keeps watch needs sleep first.]

The lamp clicked off. Half the room went dark. The stack at the desk corner still stood there, the table of contents tucked inside the front cover of Volume One—the second half of Volume Five's row, the ink not yet dry.