Chapter 14 “The Detective is an Orphan!”

Zhu Qing returned to the police academy dormitory very late that night.

Her dorm application had been pending approval for a long time, and the daily three-hour commute left her utterly exhausted.

Now she lay on the peeling, faded metal bunk bed, the glaring fluorescent light above her and the humming of an old fan beside her ears.

Steward Cui’s words still lingered in her mind.

Through the window, she could see the lights still on at the video rental shop near the academy’s side gate.

An idea flashed through her mind. Zhu Qing suddenly sat up and hurried toward the school gate.

About ten minutes later, she returned clutching a rented old DVD and tentatively knocked on the dorm auntie’s door.

“Can I borrow the TV?”

The dorm auntie adjusted her reading glasses, a kindly smile spreading across her face as she recognized Zhu Qing. “Oh, it’s you.”

This student had left a deep impression.

During the final graduation exams, she had broken multiple records—one could say she was the legendary figure of their batch.

The dorm auntie invited her in and slowly rummaged through a drawer to find the remote with worn-out buttons.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you? The canteen closed long ago.” The auntie handed her half a barbecued pork bun. “Here, have something to fill your stomach.”

Zhu Qing thanked her, stuffed the bun into her mouth, and bent down to examine the VCD player.

The machine had been issued by the logistics department just last year, but no one ever used it, leaving a thin layer of dust. Only when Zhu Qing crouched down did she notice the red, yellow, and white cables haphazardly plugged into the TV ports. She reconnected them properly and pressed the power button.

“I kept pressing buttons but nothing happened…” Before the dorm auntie could finish, the TV suddenly lit up with a blue glow.

“It’s working—it’s working!” she exclaimed excitedly. “We can watch it now!”

A former police academy student, now a detective at the station, who could also fix electronics on the side.

As the VCD player began reading the disc, the dorm auntie imagined watching movies during her future shifts and couldn’t stop grinning.

The images on the TV gradually sharpened.

It was a drama series from over a decade ago, starring Sheng Peishan, a former top-three Miss Hong Kong contestant.

In a narrow alley, Sheng Peishan, dressed in a cheongsam and holding an umbrella, moved gracefully through a light drizzle.

As the camera zoomed in, she suddenly turned her head, tears glistening in her eyes, portraying sorrow with heartbreaking perfection.

The dorm auntie, unraveling a ball of yarn, couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. “Crying on cue—actors really are something else.”

…

At dawn the next day, as the first light of daybreak appeared on the horizon, Zhu Qing was already on an early bus heading to Kwun Tong.

In the quiet, deserted back alleys of Kwun Tong, she found the newsstand run by the parents of the deceased, He Jia’er.

The metal kiosk was lit with a dim yellow light. Father He was organizing the morning papers, while Mother He used long tongs to pick up aluminum cans left behind by drunkards the night before—these were recyclables that could be exchanged for money.

Upon hearing Zhu Qing’s purpose for visiting, Mother He set down the cans, wiped her hands repeatedly on her clothes, and led Zhu Qing through narrow alleyways to their home.

Public housing required waiting in line for an application. Mother He still remembered the night they won the lottery for this unit—the whole family couldn’t sleep from excitement.

The apartment was cramped and old, its tiny space cluttered with daily necessities, forcing anyone passing through to weave around the mess.

The slightly larger inner room had been He Jia’er’s bedroom. No clutter was ever stored there, and even after ten years, the room remained spotless, preserved exactly as it had been.

“The clothes, shoes, and handbags are all here.” Mother He opened the wardrobe. In just a few days, her voice had grown hoarser. “The other officers who came last time also looked at them.”

The well-tailored dresses, gleaming designer high heels, and soft leather handbags… hung in the shabby, outdated wardrobe, appearing starkly out of place.  

Yet they were impeccably neat and clean, with even the wrinkles smoothed out.  

Many of the garments still had their tags attached.  

“Why did that man have to kill her?” Mother He suddenly choked up. “Jia’er was such a good girl. Even if she was a bit stubborn, she would never have pestered him…”  

Zhu Qing’s gaze drifted over the expensive clothing before settling on the mottled wall.  

Faded award certificates—proof of He Jia’er’s achievements from childhood onward—were pasted on the mildew-stained surface.  

“These—” She took a step forward. “Need to be taken back to the station.”  

…  

Meanwhile, at the Sheng residence, Sheng Peishan paused outside the children’s room, her wheelchair coming to a stop.  

The housemaid Marisa stood behind her, respectfully answering the Second Miss Sheng’s earlier inquiry: “The Young Master didn’t throw a tantrum, he just… hasn’t spoken at all.”  

The door to the children’s room was slightly ajar. Sheng Peishan’s gaze traveled past Marisa’s bulky frame, peering inside.  

She lowered her eyes, glancing at the cup of warm milk in her hand.  

Truthfully, she wasn’t close to her younger brother, nor was she particularly skilled at comforting children.  

In the past, the Sheng family’s Young Master had been spoiled and willful, a true little tyrant. But because he was so undeniably adorable—his delicate, doll-like face crumpling, lips trembling—no one could bring themselves to truly reprimand him.  

However, after the deaths of Sheng Wenchang and Qin Lizhu, everything changed. Bodyguards no longer shadowed his every step, and the servants grew increasingly lax. Within months, even when Sheng Fang acted out, the adults turned a blind eye—no scolding, just mechanically cleaning up the messes he left behind…  

Gradually, all of Sheng Fang’s usual antics lost their effect. Sheng Peishan wondered if the little boy had begun to doubt himself.  

“Second Miss, should we ask the detective to come?” Marisa suggested cautiously. “The Young Master likes her very much. The other day, he even called the station to chat with her.”  

On the bay window, the small figure was curled up.  

Sheng Fang sat with his back to the door, clutching an Iron Man figurine, motionless and eerily quiet.  

“Officer Zhu does seem to get along well with him,” Sheng Peishan murmured. “What did they talk about?”  

“I heard… the Young Master say that not all parents protect their children as they grow up.”  

“Apparently, the detective told him—”  

Sheng Peishan: “She doesn’t have parents either.”  

“Second Miss, how did you know?” Marisa exclaimed. “The Young Master said on the phone that the detective is an orphan!”  

Sheng Peishan didn’t respond, simply handing the warm milk to Marisa.  

“You take it to him,” she said. “I’m tired.”  

Aunt Liu stepped forward, wheeling Second Miss Sheng back to her bedroom.  

Just before the door closed, Sheng Peishan spoke again.  

“Don’t let anyone in.”  

“I’m waiting for a phone call.”  

…  

When Zhu Qing returned to the station, she arrived just in time for the morning briefing.  

The White Bone Case clues were still on the whiteboard, arrows and photos weaving an invisible web.  

At Mo Zhenbang’s signal, Zhu Qing added the new information to the board.

Sheng Peishan had once postponed moving due to feng shui concerns. Could there be a connection between this and Chen Chaosheng halting the night shift construction crew…?

Moreover, the timing of Sheng Peishan’s car accident also coincided with the construction period of that villa on the hillside.

“Wait a minute—are you suggesting that Second Miss Sheng might not be as innocent as she appears?”

“She’s thirty-seven years old,” Uncle Lai said. “Even if she were seventeen, growing up in the Sheng family’s environment and navigating the murky waters of the entertainment industry, how naive could she possibly be?”

If this conversation had happened three or five days earlier, Zeng Yongshan would have immediately jumped to Sheng Peishan’s defense.

But now, tangled in conflicting testimonies, even she felt uncertain.

“Do you remember…” Zeng Yongshan recalled, “that day when Second Miss’s husband committed suicide, during her statement, she said if she had wanted to end her life, she would have done it over a decade ago.”

“That completely contradicts the butler’s account,” Zhu Qing said. “The feng shui of the hillside mansion was problematic, so even after three days and nights of rituals, they couldn’t avoid that severe car accident—which happened ten years ago.”

“Could it be—” Xu Jiale frowned, “that she deliberately obscured the timeline of the accident?”

Zhu Qing’s eyes suddenly sharpened.

She reopened the case file, searching for the statement from the nightclub hostess.

“This A May mentioned that the last time she saw He Jia’er, a luxury car came to pick her up, the trunk stuffed with designer shopping bags.”

Zhu Qing added, “From start to finish, no one actually saw clearly whether the person in the car was a man or a woman.”

“Huh?” Zeng Yongshan looked stunned, then suddenly realized. “Right… Who said the driver of a luxury car must be a man?”

They had been misled by deep-rooted assumptions.

In reality, the one behind the wheel back then was the still-able-bodied Second Miss Sheng.

But why would she do such a thing?