Chapter 358: Two Letters of Forgiveness

When Chen Maolin came upstairs, he'd shifted the red copper ink pad box to his left hand.

The chair under the second-floor window sat empty. He placed the box on the corner of the desk without opening it, then sat down first. The top button of his dark gray shirt was fastened all the way up, same as always. The weather had turned hot; a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He didn't wipe it.

"That page from last time—you didn't keep it," he said. "This time I've brought new ones."

He pulled two sheets of paper from his bag and laid them on the desk, neat and square, top-right corner aligned with top-right corner.

Shen Zhixia didn't reach for them. She looked first at the heading on the paper: Letter of Forgiveness. Below it, several printed lines—I hereby express forgiveness for so-and-so's actions and request that the judicial authorities impose a lighter, reduced, or exempted punishment. Further down, two signature lines. One read "Forgiving Party," the other "Tortfeasor."

Both were blank.

"Two hundred thousand," Chen Maolin said. "One hundred thousand per person. Once signed, it lands in your account this afternoon. No company books involved. Medical expenses are separate—whatever the amount, we'll cover it."

"The Tortfeasor line." Shen Zhixia's finger hovered over the paper, tapping at the air above it without touching down. "Whose name goes there?"

Chen Maolin's smile didn't waver. "Leave it blank. We'll fill it in when the time comes."

"So we're signing a letter of forgiveness without knowing who we're forgiving."

"You've both met him," he said. "That doesn't need to go on paper."

Lu Jibai set down his teacup. "Mr. Chen, who sent you today?"

"Hengyue Group."

"The Group sent you to negotiate two victims' letters of forgiveness?"

"The family also retained me."

"Then write the family's name on the paper," Shen Zhixia said. "Nobody from the Group is lying in a hospital bed."

Chen Maolin drew his fingers back from the paper's edge and straightened his cuffs.

"As for Qingshi Village," he said, shifting tack and lowering his voice, "there's room to talk there too. Three thousand was the earlier figure. Now President Qin says it can go to fifty thousand—sign one household at a time, and the money transfers the moment each one signs."

She looked up.

She thought of that Agreement that never got signed—Chai Guizhi saying "I can't read, you read it to me," and her following along line by line. Three thousand yuan, one sheet of paper, and from then on no claim to your rights. She thought too of last week at the police station, the officer handing her that Notice of Case Filing, the cause-of-action field neatly stamped.

"That side, you can take up with the court," Lu Jibai said. "The plaintiff is Qinghe. The children aren't plaintiffs, and neither are we. Public-interest litigation isn't something you or I can withdraw."

"I understand that," Chen Maolin said with a nod. "So today I'm only here about this one matter."

"We're not discussing this one either," Shen Zhixia said.

Chen Maolin's gaze lingered on her face, then shifted left to the gauze wrapped around Lu Jibai's left forearm. The dressing was smaller than last week, one corner lifting in a curl of white.

"The tortfeasor is young," he said, his voice dropping further. "At that age, a few years inside and everything's too late when he comes out. His mother's been in the hospital these past two days—her blood pressure won't come down."

Shen Zhixia said nothing.

"I know you two don't need this two hundred thousand," Chen Maolin said. "But this money isn't buying your silence. Sign it, and the matter's done: you move forward, he suffers a little less. The words are yours to write. No one writes them for you."

"A letter of forgiveness isn't bought," Lu Jibai said.

One sentence. Not fast, not raised.

Chen Maolin's eyebrow twitched.

"This case is publicly prosecuted," Shen Zhixia said. She made no move toward the two sheets, only tilted her chin up slightly. "Whether we sign or not, it can't be withdrawn or stopped. If we sign, someone mentions it at sentencing. If we don't, someone still does. What you're trying to buy with two hundred thousand is the same as those two blank lines you left on the paper—empty."

"You know exactly why those two lines are blank," Chen Maolin said.

"Yes, we do," she said. "On March 17th, in this room, you said 'stay off the road at night.' On the night of the 18th, a car came straight at us, and the driver rolled down his window and said 'next time I won't brake.' On the morning of the 19th, I sat in the questioning room, and the box they stamped on that form said 'Victim.' Now you put a piece of paper in front of me with no name on it and ask me to write 'forgiveness'—I can't write that."

Chen Maolin's hand came to rest on the ink pad box. He lifted the lid, then pressed it back down, the sound soft.

"Leave the papers with you," he said, rising. "When you've thought it over, call me. Within three days, the number still stands."

"We won't be making that call," Lu Jibai said.

Chen Maolin reached the door and glanced back: at the empty chair under the window, then at the two sheets on the desk.

"The number won't go up," he said. "But it won't go down either."

He went downstairs. Footfalls descending step by step, pausing once halfway down, then continuing. Downstairs, He Xiufen called out "Want some noodles?" He said no, and a car beyond the roll-up shutter door beeped once and drove off.

Lu Jibai picked up the two sheets, examined them one by one, and smoothed them flat.

"Two of them. Both signature lines blank." He pushed them to the center of the desk. "Keep them."

"Keep them for what?"

"Because next time they'll say, 'We delivered the papers, and you accepted them.'" He pulled a third paper bag from the drawer and laid it out flat, face up. "Write on the bag: March 24th, 3:00 p.m. Chen Maolin left two Letters of Forgiveness on the second floor of this office. No signatures, no seals. This office has not accepted any payment."

"I'll write that line."

He stopped and looked at her.

"You never touched those two sheets," he said. "I did. I'll write it."

She pulled her hand back and watched him write. The characters moved down line by line. At "has not accepted any payment," the pen paused; when he'd finished he went back and traced over the word "any" a second time. Watching him write, she thought back to March 17th, when he'd written like this and stopped at the last line to ask her, "That sentence—is that the exact wording?"

This time he didn't ask. When he'd finished, he folded the two sheets into thirds, tucked them into the bag, pressed the flap flat, and tapped the desk lightly with one finger.

[Thud. Second offer. Last time, fifty thousand per household. This time, two hundred thousand for two people. The price went up. The question's still those two blank lines.]

She looked out the window. The kettle on the stove downstairs had begun to boil, the lid rattling.

Tang Guo showed up the next evening at eight.

She kicked off her shoes at the door and came straight over, phone in hand, screen lit. She held it up in front of Shen Zhixia's face first, then set it on the table. Zhi'an was doing homework in the inner room, the door cracked open.

The video wasn't long. It opened at the mouth of the noodle shop's alley, shot from Zhongshan Road: the streetlight pole, the dried-fruit shop's sign light, the patched patch of concrete on the ground. A caption underneath: "Outside my friend's door." Then came a screenshot of that MMS—the photo of two people standing in front of the noodle shop, timestamp in the corner, the phone number row blurred out. After that, Tang Guo herself, sitting at her own table at home, the camera close, no makeup, speaking slowly.

"This time I have to post it," she said.

Shen Zhixia watched the video twice.

"How many times did you cut it?"

"Six," Tang Guo said. "I softened what I said six times. Don't worry—I didn't name a single person, didn't name the company either. Just said someone tried to run my friend over outside her door."

"You included the photo."

"I shot it from your phone screen. Blurred the number, kept the timestamp." Tang Guo said. "I pixelated the faces—it's just two silhouettes. You two I'd recognize, but nobody else would."

"Maybe no one else. The other side will." Shen Zhixia pushed the phone back. "This can't go up."

Tang Guo's eyes widened. "Why not?"

"The case is still under investigation. If the victim goes public, the other side has a line waiting for them in court." She laid her hand flat on the table. "Same as what Lawyer Lu said upstairs that day: the moment they say that line, I won't be able to do anything else for a year—the plaintiff's lawyer using the hit she took to trade for that ditch. The Qingshi Village case hasn't even gone to trial yet. The second your account starts shouting, this alley becomes the entire reason I'm working the case."

"This is your business!" Tang Guo's voice rose. "You're the one who got hit!"

"I did get hit."

"Then why won't you let me say it?"

Shen Zhixia didn't answer right away. In the corner of the desk, the stack of volumes still sat pinned under two old newspapers, the edge of the first volume lifting slightly.

"Last time they made something with your face, I didn't tell you to keep quiet," she said. "That time it was fake. If you stayed silent, the fake version stood. This time it's real. Real things don't disappear just because no one says them today. It's in the police file, in the forensic appraisal report, in that stretch of surveillance footage from the dried-fruit shop. They've said it earlier than I could."

"If I delete it, then no one will know."

"Plenty of people know. The police know, the appraisers know, the procuratorate will know too."

Tang Guo fell silent. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over the screen without moving.

"You told me so little on the phone that day: something about a car, don't come near the alley, they caught the guy. Nothing else." She kept her head down. "I'm not trying to fight your battles for you. I'm scared. I'm scared that one day the call I get will be from someone else, telling me you two are in the hospital."

The words hung in the room, and for a moment it went quiet. From the inner room, the pen had stopped moving on the page.

"How many places do I need to delete?" she asked, her voice low.

"Drafts. The original photo in your album. The exported video after editing."

"They're all on my phone."

"Then delete them all," Shen Zhixia said. "I won't watch."

Tang Guo deleted them one by one. At the third one, she paused and looked up.

"I've done this twice now," she said. "Last time it was screenshots of those people's video, and I deleted them. This time it's my own. Tell me I'm not completely pathetic."

"You're not," Shen Zhixia said. "Hold the words you need to say in one place, until they can finally be said. One sentence then will hit harder than ten."

Tang Guo set her phone face-down on the table, her eyes reddening. She turned away and spun the cup on the table in a full circle.

"How's his arm?"

"He got the dressing changed today. He says it doesn't hurt."

"He says it doesn't hurt and you believe him?"

"Even if he doesn't say it, I know it hurts," Shen Zhixia said. "I just don't want to ask."

Tang Guo sniffled, then laughed—not a pretty laugh.

The inner-room door opened wider. Zhi'an came out with his cup to get water. He filled it halfway, then stood by the door without leaving, eyes on the table.

"I'm keeping track of the days," Tang Guo said, tucking her phone into her bag and standing. "Tell me when it can go up."

"You'll be the first call I make."

"You promise."

"I promise."

Tang Guo walked to the door and put on one shoe, then looked up. "Next time you two go out, send me your location."

A voice from the inner room: "Me too."

All three of them paused. Tang Guo ducked her head, pulled on the other shoe, opened the door, and left.

[Thud. She deleted it. This time, she deleted it herself.]

Shen Zhixia picked up her phone, opened her chat with Tang Guo, turned on location sharing, and set it for eight hours.

The inner-room door was still open. Zhi'an stood by the kettle with his half-glass of water.

"What about me?"

"You're in on this too."

"How do I get in?"

"I'll add you."