I’m sitting on a white swing, suspended from a white frame laced with blooming white flowers. Hansen stands behind me, his hands gentle on my back, pushing me into the air with quiet rhythm. I turn, smiling at him. He smiles back—eyes bright, sparkling—just like the night he invited me to dinner after my show, when everything felt new, tender and possible.

  He pushes me higher. I laugh, legs outstretched, spinning into dancing poses midair, showing off my balance, my grace. I feel light. Untouchable. As if the sky itself is holding me.

  But then the swing rises too high. The arc sharpens. The wind thins. My laughter falters.

  A chill creeps up my spine.

  “Stop,” I say, voice tightening. “Hansen, stop.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I glance back—and he’s changed.

  Taller. Broader. His face no longer soft.

  It’s Gang Yao.

  My breath catches. My hair lifts. A scream tears out of me, raw and full.

  And then—

  I wake.

  Gasping. Drenched in sweat. My heart pounding like a war drum against my ribs.

  The dream clings to me—sharp as glass. The swing. The smile. The betrayal.

  And the fall.

  Then I see it—blue and red light strobing across the wall, insistent, pulsing like a warning.

  I sit up, breath caught. My bedroom faces the garden, not the road, but the light still finds me—bouncing off glass, slipping through curtains, casting fractured shadows across the ceiling.

  Something’s wrong.

  I throw off the sheets, cross the room barefoot, and sprint down the hallway to the front guest room.

  I reach the window and freeze.

  Outside, the quiet cul-de-sac is shattered by urgency. Two police cars idle in front of the house across the road, engines humming low. Their lights pulse against the hedges, painting shadows that twitch like nervous ghosts. A third vehicle—a black unmarked unit—pulls in behind them.

  Officers move with practiced precision. One speaks into a radio. Another ducks beneath the yellow crime scene tape now strung across the gate. A forensic technician unloads gear from the trunk: camera, gloves, sealed kits. The front door of the house is wide open, and inside, the hallway glows with sterile light.

  Then I see her.

  A woman in a sky-blue uniform, hair pulled back tight, steps out of the house. Detective. She holds a tablet, speaking to someone just out of view. Her face is unreadable, but her posture is sharp—alert, commanding.

  Something terrible has happened.

  I press my fingers to the glass, watching. The windows across the street are dark. No movement. No signs of life. Just the flicker of flashlights and the low murmur of voices.

  Then the detective crosses the road.

  My doorbell rings.

  Even though I saw her coming, the sound jolts me. I rush downstairs, heart hammering, and peek through the door scope.

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  She’s right there. A beautiful face, calm but unreadable.

  I crack the door, leaving the chain in place.

  She holds up her ID. “Captain Xu. Head of Homicide, Chaoyang District. I noticed your curtains were open. I wondered if you saw anything.”

  Homicide.

  The word lands cold in my chest.

  Across the road, in that house I’ve passed a hundred times without thought, someone’s story has just ended.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, voice thin. “I was asleep in the back bedroom. I didn’t see anything.”

  She nods, then asks, “Do you mind if I come in for a brief chat?” She pauses, reading my hesitation. “Just me.”

  I glance down. Pajamas. Bare feet. I reach for the jacket hanging by the door, slip it on, then unhook the chain and open the door just wide enough to let her in.

  As she steps through the door, I flick on the hallway light. The glow is soft, but her eyes sharpen instantly, scanning the space with quiet precision. Without a word, she draws her gun from the holster at her hip.

  I freeze.

  She gestures for me to stay by the door, then moves quietly toward the living room. Her eyes sweep the corners, her body taut with readiness.

  That's when I understand.

  She’s not here to talk. She’s clearing the house.

  My skin prickles. The idea that a murderer could be hiding in my home—behind a curtain, inside a closet—makes my stomach twist.

  She signals to me from time to time, keeping me in her field of vision.

  She moves room to room, methodical and silent. Opens every door. Pulls back every curtain. Checks under beds, inside wardrobes, behind shower glass. When she finishes scanning my bedroom, she finally relaxes, just slightly.

  “Are you living here alone?” she asks.

  I nod. “I have housekeepers, but they don’t stay overnight.”

  She turns toward the window, pointing across the road. “How well do you know your neighbor?”

  “Mengjie?” I say. “Not much. She’s quiet. From the Northeast.”

  Everyone in this neighborhood is quiet. We all have secrets we don’t want others to know.

  She pulls out a photo—Mengjie and a man in swimwear, smiling on a beach. The image feels too bright, too alive for this moment.

  “Have you seen him recently?” she asks.

  I blink. I haven’t. Not for months. Maybe half a year.

  “You suspect him?” I blurt.

  “The leading murderers of second wives,” she says, casually, “are their lovers.”

  Her tone is clinical, almost bored. As if this is just another statistic.

  “So she’s been murdered?” I whisper.

  “That’s a possibility.”

  I’m not surprised Mengjie was a second wife. I know the rhythm too well—no job, leisurely days, a husband who visits like a ghost. But murder?

  “When’s the last time you saw him?” she asks, tapping the photo.

  “Not recently,” I say, voice thin.

  She hands me a card. Ruolin Xu. Head of Homicide. Her number is circled in red.

  “Be careful,” she says. “Call me anytime.”

  Then she’s gone.

  The door clicks shut, and the silence feels suffocating. I can’t stay here. Not tonight.

  I call Yuting. She’s groggy, but her voice warms when she hears mine.

  I pack quickly—clothes, cosmetics, essentials—stuff them into a suitcase, then drive my BMW through the empty streets. My heart pounds the entire way.

  When I arrive, she opens the door in slippers and a silk robe. I collapse onto her bed, my head in her lap.

  “Don’t worry,” she murmurs, stroking my hair. “Stay as long as you need.”

  “What if your husband comes?” I ask.

  “He’ll be happy to see you,” she says, with a smile I can’t quite read.

  I let it pass.

  I tell her everything—the detective, the photo, the suspicion. She doesn’t flinch, neither is she surprised.

  “Haven’t you heard?” she says. “They divorce the first wife. Kill the second.”

  I never thought about it that way. But it rings true.

  Like Hansen. He could divorce his wife. But me? I know too much. I could threaten his reputation, career, and even his freedom. I’m not someone he can simply walk away from.

  “What do we do?” I ask. “We’re pretty now, but everyone grows old.”

  “The trick,” Yuting says, “is novelty. Keep it fresh. Spice things up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiles slyly. “Ménage à trois. Every once in a while, a new woman in the bedroom.”

  I blush. “With who?”

  “Ever heard of compensation dating?” she says, eyes gleaming. “But be careful. Those little hussies will steal your man right under your nose.”

  "Best if we help each other," she adds with a wink. I suddenly realize what she meant when she said her husband would be happy to see me.

  "Won't your husband wonder whether you do the same for others too?" I ask.

  "Do you really think they expect us to be chaste?" she scoffs. "The first thing they do when they're tired of us is whore us around for favors. They call it 'return on investment.'"

  My mood instantly becomes worse. The memory of Gang Yao—his hand on the back of my head, thrusting into my mouth—floods back. So does Hansen’s expression, cold and clinical, like he was watching a stranger perform.

  Yuting notices. Her voice softens. “Get some sleep. Treat this like your own home.”

  I nod, force a smile. But sleep won’t come.

  I lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to forget Tuesday night. Trying to forget the detective’s face when she handed me her card and said, call me anytime.

  She looked so certain.

  As if she knew I would.

  /**

  “Detective” isn’t an official rank in the Ruby Republic police force. Officers who investigate crimes are usually called investigators, and they hold various ranks.

  “Captain” is a title, not a formal rank. Ruolin’s actual rank is Second Class Superintendent.

  **/