106. Confess to Me

After returning the photos and keys to their original places, Dean drove Holden back to the LVPD. Holden went ahead to the morgue where Jayne Harden’s body was stored to make arrangements.

Dean took a syringe from his bag, slipped it into his suit pocket, found a payphone near the police station, inserted a coin, and dialed.

"Hi, Lawyer Ruckville, I have a question for you."

"Go ahead, Dean, I'm listening."

"If I persuade the real culprit to turn themselves in, does that count as fulfilling the contract? Can I get Joan Carter out?"

"You want to threaten Barrett Quinn?" The lawyer’s voice sounded pained. "Listen, Dean, intimidation and coercion don't work. In my experience, most people who try to place themselves above the law end up dying miserably."

"How could I discuss illegal acts with a lawyer of your stature? I have a legitimate method to stir someone’s conscience and lead them to a realization, leaving no loose ends."

"I asked you to find evidence, and you’re trying to make the suspect surrender directly, skipping all my courtroom procedures..."

There was a moment of silence, followed by the lawyer’s heavy breathing on the other end.

"Forget it. As long as it’s within the rules and leaves no hidden trouble, do as you see fit."

...

Having received the answer he wanted, Dean hung up and entered the police station.

"Kid, it’s been over two months. Finally rested enough?" Carl, looking anxious, bumped into him. He smoothed back the sparse strands of hair on his balding head and reached out a hand. "The guys are overwhelmed. How about helping out with a support mission tonight to take some of the pressure off?"

"Sorry, I’m busy right now!"

...

Dean brushed off several other officers trying to rope him into night patrol and headed down to the morgue in the basement.

"We’re just in time. Tomorrow, Jayne’s family is coming to take the body for the funeral," Holden said, scanning the rows of gleaming silver freezers. "Left-hand side, freezer number thirteen!"

Dean grabbed the handle and pulled. A blast of pale, frigid air rushed out as he dragged the black body bag into the open. It reeked of pungent disinfectant and the rot of a corpse.

*Zip.*

The bag opened to reveal the naked male corpse. The skin was bloated and bloodless, the body fat and misshapen with faint lividity, the belly distended like that of a six-month-pregnant woman. Most striking were the hideous, centipede-like suture marks across his neck, torso, and limbs. He lay there with a calm expression, like a clumsily stitched-up giant wax figure, cold and chilling.

"Autopsy finished?" Dean inserted the syringe into the corpse's arm and pulled back the plunger.

"His family requested it; the autopsy confirmed he was hanged. Wait, what are you doing? I promised people I wouldn't mess with the body!"

"Relax, I’m just taking some blood." Dean struggled with the plunger for a while. When he looked at the syringe, he froze—the tube contained only a tiny, dark red, viscous clump.

"Why won't it come out?"

"The blood coagulates after death; it’s hard to extract with standard methods," Holden said, watching his companion’s clumsy efforts, finally finding him a bit more relatable. "You need a larger syringe, aim for the right spot, and wait a moment. Let me demonstrate."

Holden left the morgue and returned five minutes later with a device several times larger than Dean's, with a needle gauge thick as a straw.

"Aim for the ventricle..." Holden held the syringe and plunged the needle into the corpse’s left chest with precision. "Pull back the plunger as you pierce it."

Holden slowly pulled the plunger. The first attempt missed, and the extraction failed. But after a few more tries, dark liquid slowly welled up into the large syringe.

"Stop! That’s enough." Dean took the syringe, injected the blood into a sample bag, and sighed with relief. "Not bad, pal. I didn't know you had these kinds of skills."

"It’s just an amateur hobby." Holden asked, "Can you tell me now? Why are you taking the deceased's blood? Planning more illegal, taboo business?"

"What do you mean 'more'? I’ll just give you a hint: it has to do with the soul." Dean grinned, a mysterious smile on his face. "Sometimes, the unknown is more terrifying and shudder-inducing to humans than death itself—it’s something they cannot resist!"

"And fear is far more effective than any torture!"

"Just you wait. Stay in the station tomorrow night; there will be a surprise."

Dean patted the pensive Holden on the shoulder and pushed open the morgue door to leave. At the same time, a new prompt flashed across his system:

"Jayne Harden’s blood has replaced Gru Stone’s blood. Blood analysis countdown: 23:59:56."

...

Time slipped away until the next day.

At the Gawain Hotel restaurant, Barrett Quinn was dressed in his usual vest and shirt, carrying coffee and cake, moving around diligently. He served with a mechanical smile, his eyes puffy, his large aquiline nose prominent.

As he passed a corner of the restaurant, his footsteps suddenly faltered.

"Bell, why are you so distracted today?" a waiter as thin as a bamboo pole was chatting with a handsome colleague. "Missing Joan so much you’re depressed? Be patient, maybe she’ll be back next month."

"Don't dream about it. We’ll never see the goddess again!" the handsome colleague said indignantly. "I heard the gossip from those women: Jayne’s rich, powerful wife is determined to ruin Joan. No one can save her."

"Poor Joan. Once sentenced, she won't be out for a decade or more. By then, she’ll have gone from a beauty to a misshapen, middle-aged woman."

Barrett, who was eavesdropping nearby, turned a strange shade of white. He cautiously leaned in to join the conversation, stammering, "Wasn't it an accidental killing? Isn't a ten-year sentence too harsh?"

The thin man glanced at him with disdain, turned his face away impatiently, and continued talking to Bell.

"It’s all that bald fat man’s fault! He had to go and hang himself while we were busy working, and then he splashed the mud on Joan."

...

Barrett quietly lowered his head and moved away from his chattering colleagues.

Things remained the same. He was clumsy and out of place, forever ostracized, like a pathetic simpleton. No, it was even worse. The only woman who brought a splash of color to his gray world, his beloved Joan, had been locked in a detention center. And it was all because of him.

...

Off work at six, an exhausted Barrett returned to his apartment, went straight to the bathroom, and took out the treasured photo from the toilet tank, gazing at his dream goddess with adoring eyes.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he kissed the photo frantically, his gloomy face showing a sickening tenderness in his triangular eyes. "I love you too much. I was blinded by jealousy and acted on impulse. I never meant to frame you."

"Forgive me!"

With red eyes, he wiped the saliva off the photo and carefully put it away. Then, he took out a photo of Jayne Harden and cursed the detestable fat face.

"You fat pig! You masochist! You pervert! It’s all your fault!"

"You misled me into hurting Joan!"

*Rrrrrip—*

His hands, thick with protruding veins, tore the photo into pieces and flushed them down the toilet.

Barrett turned on the faucet and let it run for ten minutes, flushing every scrap down the drain. He gasped for air, looking up at his angry face in the misty mirror above the vanity, when he suddenly rubbed his eyes in confusion.

He stood there as if struck by lightning—

Across the water-fogged mirror, a clear scratch appeared, crawling and moving like a translucent, venomous snake. In the blink of an eye, it formed pale, stark words:

*MURDERER!*

...

"NO! NO!"

Barrett stumbled back, terrified, and frantically wiped at the mirror.

The curtain in the corner of the bathroom suddenly billowed. A chilling, deathly cold brushed against the back of his neck, like the rotting hand of a corpse. Barrett felt his hair stand on end. As his body stiffened, an icy chill, like skin freshly stripped from a dead man, wrapped around him completely.

He couldn't move a single finger. Something gripped his throat, turning his screams into a weak, wheezing hiss. He stared helplessly, eyes wide, at his own pale, ugly, distorted face in the mirror.

*Whoosh—* A gust of wind blew a half-torn photo off the toilet tank. It drifted through the air and stuck precisely onto the mirror.

In the photo, the long-dead Jayne Harden was squinting his pitch-black eyes, grinning coldly at him.

*You killed me!*

Clear text traced itself on the mirror below the photo, and a voice seemed to echo in his ears:

*Kneel and repent to me.*

...

*Is Jayne’s ghost here for revenge?*

Barrett stood frozen as if struck by a bolt of lightning. His blood-red face turned deathly pale. Cold, sticky sweat soaked his clothes, and his heart hammered against his throat. The chill wrapping his body tightened, making it hard to breathe.

*Relax, relax. Breathe deep.*

*In... out...*

He gasped for air like a fish out of water, suffocating. Suddenly, without warning, the force binding his body vanished, and he slumped.

"Hallucinations! It’s all just hallucinations!"

Barrett screamed and rushed out of the bathroom, jumping onto the bed toward the light switch on the wall. He pressed it.

*Pop!*

A sharp sound rang out. The light on the ceiling was shattered into dust by an invisible force, raining glass everywhere. Barrett lunged for the desk lamp.

*Pop!*

The bulb exploded again!

Barrett was stunned. The last rays of the sunset from the horizon cast a mottled glow into the room. But instead of dispelling the gloom and ghostly chill, it made the place feel darker and more tomb-like.

Barrett whipped around.

A photo hovered in the dim air of the bedroom. In it, Jayne Harden was grinning, revealing a set of yellow teeth as he lunged toward him!

His bladder gave way, an uncontrollable urge overwhelming him. Barrett rushed to the door like a madman, grabbed the handle, and twisted, desperate to escape into the hallway.

But it felt like trying to twist solid steel. The handle was welded to the door, immovable!

His mind went blank. Instinctively, he kicked over a stool and rushed to the balcony. He swung the balcony door open—and his breath hitched!

His face slammed into something ice-cold.

A massive, mountain-like shadow loomed over him on the balcony, like a gatekeeper of hell, cutting off his only path to survival. Barrett looked up slowly, a nightmare reborn—

The crimson sunset illuminated that fat face he envied to the bone, but now, the skin was white as if coated in thick powder, not human at all. And below the face, on the neck layered with fat, the deep, purple-black ligature mark was chillingly visible.

*God.*

Jayne Harden was wearing the blue suit I hate most. He crawled out of the freezer. He followed me to my balcony.

The man collapsed completely, his knees buckling. He fell to his knees, trembling, before Jayne Harden.

"You killed me."

Jayne Harden’s voice, cold and hoarse like a file, rang out. Barrett felt another sharp object press against the back of his neck. A hot stream surged in his crotch, running down his thighs to form a yellowish puddle on the floor.

"W-w-wooo... don't kill me," he chattered, his limbs shaking uncontrollably, snot and tears streaming down his face. "I was wrong. I only wanted to play a prank. I didn't mean to actually hang you."

"Come, go to hell with me."

"No, don't kill me!" Barrett hugged his legs, which were cold as ice, and begged for mercy. "I’ll agree to any condition! Just spare my life."

"I’ll spend the rest of my life atoning for my sins. I swear to God and Satan!"

The hoarse sobbing echoed on the balcony. Jayne only watched him coldly with eyes black as the abyss, saying nothing. For a long time, until Barrett was on the verge of passing out...

...

"I’ll give you one last chance."

Jayne finally spoke, looking down at the pathetic man.

"Turn yourself in at the police station before midnight tonight. Clear Joan Carter’s name and repent in prison for the rest of your life."

"This is your only chance to live. Of course, you can try to run."

"I will follow you forever. I will follow you, and follow you. Once I catch you... haha," Jayne laughed, his mouth stretching almost to his ears, his voice filled with blood and brutality, making Barrett’s blood run cold. "You will die a hundred times more painfully than I did!"

Barrett’s shoulders hunched.

"Now—"

Jayne waved a hand dismissively toward the room.

"Get out!"

*Bang!*

An invisible force struck Barrett in the chest. He was lifted off the ground as if hit by a battering ram, flying back several meters to land heavily on his bed. His mind buzzed, stars dancing before his eyes.

He didn't know how much time had passed. All sound had vanished.

Barrett Quinn climbed up, his body aching as if his bones had been dismantled, and hurried to the balcony. The place was empty, not a ghost in sight. He tried the front door again, and to his surprise, he walked easily into the hallway.

The terrifying encounter felt like an unreal nightmare, but the demon’s warning lingered in his mind.

*"I will follow you, and follow you..."*

The wall clock pointed to 8:20 PM. Barrett sighed despondently, washed his face, dried his tears, and put on a fresh set of clothes. He took the stack of photos and the keys, and walked out, looking like a hollow shell.

...

Almost at the same time, in the alley behind the apartment, a ghostly figure began to follow him.