Chapter 456: The Name on the Return Receipt

September 3, 9:00 a.m. On the landing at the top of the stairs, she pulled the door shut behind her.

Downstairs, someone was chopping scallions, the knife falling in an even rhythm. A bedsheet hung over the iron railing upstairs, one corner drooping down. When the wind stirred, a drop of water fell from it and landed on the concrete step, soaking a small dark patch. She spread her notebook open across her arm and turned to the page she'd written on the night before.

"Chengbei old machinery plant dormitory area, back row, fourth room counting from the east end," she said into the phone. "There are a few apartment buildings in front. Walk past them and you'll see the row of single-story rooms at the back, one right next to the other. There's a concrete platform by the door with a bucket on it. He uses it to wash his face."

"Got it," the court clerk said.

"On the morning of the sixth, we'll go with the people from Chengbei Police Station." The clerk paused. "If he asks, we'll say we're just registering something and delivering the paperwork."

"He's hard of hearing," she said. "And his legs are bad. He has to stop and rest every few steps."

"I'll note that in the case file margins."

"On the day of the hearing, please save him a seat near the front."

"Save him a seat near the front." Paper rustled on the clerk's end. "Shen, that thing he said—'tell them'—is that how he put it when he spoke to you?"

"That's how he put it," she said. "And one more thing: 'I'll go to the hearing.'"

No response came from the other end, just the scratch of a pen on paper.

"Good. Morning of the sixth."

After hanging up, she stood on the landing and read the line in her notebook once more—Chengbei old machinery plant dormitory area, back row, fourth room—her own handwriting, slightly crooked. She didn't cross it out, didn't rewrite it. Downstairs the pot had come to a boil, and the sound of the exhaust fan rose up the stairwell, surging toward the landing in waves.

September 4 and 5, the firm ran as usual.

She made a copy of Lao Kan's receipt stub and checked the date on the bank slip against it for the third time. Li Huilan went to the detention center at 9:30 for a client meeting and came back at noon with a sheet of notes—a few lines the man had dictated. She said he barely knew any characters and had asked her to clean it up into proper written language, read it back to him, and mail it. She started editing, got three lines in, and stopped. She said she couldn't bring herself to write in that tone—better to keep his original words. Li Huilan said, "Keep his original words."

Her phone sat at the corner of the desk, face up. Two group messages came in that afternoon: one from someone in Chengbei asking about a bike repair, one from Deng Wei asking whether he should wear something clean to the hearing. She read the second one twice and didn't reply—the date wasn't set yet, and if she answered, he'd just ask more.

The landline on the second floor rang at 11:30 on September 6.

He Xiufen was sitting in the old wooden chair by the window, a stack of photocopied case files spread across the desk, a red pen in her hand, marking lines in the margins. She worked slowly, one stroke at a time, pausing every few lines.

She went to answer it.

"Zhengping Firm."

"Lawyer Shen, Criminal Division," the clerk said. "We went this morning, with the people from Chengbei Police Station. He signed."

She lifted the receiver slightly, still standing, not sitting down.

"What did he say."

"After he signed, he said he'd come to the hearing himself. No one needs to pick him up. He wants the court to send a car." The clerk paused. "I told him the date hasn't been set yet, and we'd notify him when it is. He said fine."

"Where did he sign."

"On the service recipient line. He wrote his own name, slowly. When he finished, he set the pen down and looked up at us." The clerk's voice dropped a fraction. "We brought the return receipt back with us."

"That return receipt—it'll be in the file from now on."

"In the file."

He Xiufen's red pen stopped, the tip still pressed against the paper.

"He signed," He Xiufen said, her voice low, almost like a question.

"He signed," she said. "He's coming to the hearing himself. He wants the court to send a car."

He Xiufen set the pen down and pressed her hand against the edge of the desk before closing the stack of photocopies, aligning them neatly.

"A car is good," she said. "A car means he has to come. If he doesn't show, the car comes back empty, and he couldn't bear losing face like that."

"He told me on the phone—he's hard of hearing, his legs aren't good."

"I told the court on the third," Shen Zhixia said. "Reserve him a seat near the front."

He Xiufen nodded, stood up, carried the photocopies back to the steel cabinet, locked it, and worked the key out of the ring in her apron pocket before tucking it back in.

"On the day of the hearing, when the car arrives, I'll go down and meet him," she said. "I'll be standing at the entrance. He knows my face."

She left work early that day and put the rice on to soak as soon as she got home. Zhi'an came back late, dropped his schoolbag, and went straight into his room to do homework. At 7:40 p.m., her phone buzzed on the table. A string of numbers flashed on the screen. No name.

She looked at the number, picked up the phone, and pressed her thumb to the red recording dot. She held it there, then moved it away and lifted the phone to her ear.

"Lawyer Shen."

"Yes."

"I'm Pang Chunlai's son."

It was the same voice from the night of July 3. That time he'd said: Stop coming to see my father. People at the plant have been asking.

"Go ahead."

There was the creak of a door hinge on his end, like a door being pushed open then pulled closed. He didn't speak right away. First came a long, slow exhale.

"The court people came up today," he said.

"I know."

"The plant will find out." He paused. "That administration crew—they know everything. A court car pulls into the compound, and by afternoon somebody's asking questions."

She didn't respond. She couldn't carry that sentence forward for him.

"My dad insists on going," he said.

"What about you."

"I tried to talk him out of it." His voice rose slightly, then dropped back. "God knows how many times I've told him. I said, you're seventy-eight, what are you going to say up there? What are you going to sign on those papers? He won't listen."

"What does he say."

"He says he's going." A silence on his end. "He says if he doesn't go, then that thing—he's the only one who ever saw it."

She'd heard that line on the phone on September 2. His son said it now, word for word.

"August 10," she said. "Who called for the car that night."

Another creak of the hinge. Someone was moving around the room, footsteps coming and going.

"A deputy manager from plant administration," he said. "I won't tell you his name. He called me and said I should take my dad out for medical treatment. The money was on him, the car was on him, the room was on him too—up in Chengbei. I just had to deliver him and someone would take it from there."

"How much money."

"Twenty thousand." He paused. "He counted it out for me, stack by stack. Said it was for medical costs. Said to ask if it wasn't enough."

"You took it."

"I took it."

She switched the phone to her other hand.

"My dad'd been coughing in the village for half a year. I make four thousand a month." The words came faster now. "I couldn't tell my wife. I told her it was a loan. The room had heating, someone brought meals. I went up once a week. I figured he'd stay two months, I'd find a hospital, and once the cough was under control I'd bring him back down. If it hadn't been for that night..."

He didn't finish.

"What else," she said.

"Don't go back to the village before the hearing. Keeping your phone on won't help—don't take calls from strangers. Don't open the windows." He listed it off, line by line. "He said all this while I was sitting in the car. I didn't dare look at him."

"Tell the police station this yourself," she said.

"Lawyer Shen—"

"I won't speak for you, and I won't record for you." She drew her hand back from the phone. "If you're asking me how to say it, I won't coach you. If you're asking whether I'm confident, I'm not. Whether that plant will still want you after this—I can't guarantee that either."

The line went quiet for a long time, quiet enough to hear something stirring in the corner of the room. Maybe wind.

"Twenty thousand. I took it," he said. "How I explain that money—I've got no idea."

"That's your own business," she said. "How to say it, where to start—you decide."

"What about my dad."

"Your dad wrote his name on the return receipt today," she said. "He wrote it himself. Nobody wrote it for him."

He inhaled, deep, the breath catching in his throat.

"Let me think."

"Once you've thought it through—the police station in town," she said. "I'm not pointing you down any other road."

He hung up first. The string of numbers dimmed on the screen, the call duration still showing.

She set the phone back on the desk. In the next room, Zhi'an turned a page, and a chair leg scraped against the floor.

"Jie." He stuck his head out. "Who was it."

"Uncle Pang's son."

"What did he say."

"That his dad's coming up for the hearing."

Zhi'an stood still, pen in hand. "What about him. Is he coming."

"He hasn't decided yet."

"What's there to decide." The words came out before he caught himself. He pulled back into the room, leaving the door not quite shut—a crack of light through the gap.

September 7, 9:30 a.m. She was about to head out, bag on her shoulder, when she stopped at the door and dialed the court.

"This is Shen Zhixia. I have something to pass along."

"Go ahead."

"A family member called me last night. He said someone gave money, and told the old man not to go back to the village before the hearing."

"Did he say who gave it."

"He didn't give a name."

"Anything else."

"The rest, he'll have to tell the police station himself," she said. "I won't speak for him, and I won't record for him."

"Noted in the file. I'll report this to the presiding judge."

"Thank you."

She hung up, settled her bag on her shoulder, and went out.

September 11, 9:00 p.m. She was at home, notebook open under the desk lamp, pen not yet picked up. Her phone rang. She recognized the number on the screen—the old man's basic phone, saved back in July, unreachable ever since. Still in her contacts.

"Lawyer Shen's girl."

"Uncle Pang."

"I'm home," he said.

She set the pen down.

"The door's open," he said. "The scallions are still alive."

"The neighbor lady's been watering them for you."

"I saw." He paused. "Two of them. Green. She left the ladle on my windowsill."

"When did you get back."

"Today. He drove me up. It wasn't dark yet when we reached the bottom of the slope." He caught his breath. "At the door, he got out and took the lock off. He crouched there a long time while he was doing it. Didn't say a word the whole drive."

"Was the ride rough."

"Rough," he said. "My legs—sitting too long makes them go numb. I sat on the doorstep for a while before I could stand. The house is damp."

"Air it out. Don't sleep with the windows open at night."

"I know." A pause. "That court car."

"The car?"

"Does it have steps."

"I'll make a note of it. I'll say something."

"Even with steps, I can get on. Just slowly."

"Slow's fine," she said. "Once the date's set, I'll call this number."

"Call this number," he said. "That lock on the door—I'm not locking it this time. The auntie just pushes it open—it'll give."

He hung up first. She sat there holding the phone until the clock on the screen ticked to 9:04.

September 12, 8:00 p.m. Under the desk lamp, she turned the notebook back to the page from April 24. From top to bottom: the date and time at the head of the page; the Unsettled Ledger line copied verbatim; the line about the tape on the box written in pencil; the tail end of Pang Chunlai's entry added on July 21; the two sentences from the night of August 10; the padlock on August 14; the police station refusing to open a missing-persons case on August 16.

Below, still blank.

She picked up the pen and added a line at the bottom:

September 11—went home.

She capped the pen and laid it across the middle of the page. There was still an empty line below the entry. The car went down the road toward the town—that half-sentence, she still hadn't written. The blank space stayed uncrossed, unfilled. The paper lay there, waiting for the words to arrive on their own.