Liu Ge went on with his story, rambling a little, but we hung on every word like it was a lifeline.
He'd left the last part hanging—about the kid who'd been stabbed in the alley—and we were dying to know how it ended.
"This case? We didn't take it seriously at first," Liu Ge said, tapping his cigarette ash onto the table. "Started with the kid's mom storming into the station, screaming that her son was dead. Said she knew it. We thought she was just a grieving mother, losing her mind 'cause she couldn't reach him. Homicide cases are serious business—we don't just open a file 'cause someone has a bad dream."
My eyes widened. A dream? This was getting weirder by the second.
Meng Yifan leaned forward, his elbow on the table, his voice urgent. "Wait—she knew he was dead 'cause of a dream?"
Liu Ge nodded, taking a drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling up around his face. "Exactly. Said she'd dreamed he was begging her to find him. Said he was buried under a pile of dirt, cold and alone. Said he told her who killed him—some guy he owed money to. But c'mon. A dream? We get crackpots coming in with wild stories every day. We couldn't just drop everything to dig up a field in another province 'cause a lady had a nightmare."
He paused, staring off into the distance like he was reliving it. "But then—a month went by. No sign of the kid. No calls, no texts, no sightings. His bank account was untouched. His phone was dead. We were starting to think he'd skipped town. Then the mom comes back. Crying. Said her son had visited her again. This time, he showed her exactly where he was buried—down to the mile marker, down to the shape of the tree next to the dirt pile. Told her he couldn't rest until his body was brought home. Until the killer was caught."
I felt a chill run down my spine. This wasn't just a ghost story. This was a real case. A real cop, sitting across from us, telling us about a real dead kid who'd come back to his mom in a dream.
"So what did you do?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Liu Ge snorted, a bitter laugh. "What did we do? We rolled our eyes. Told her we were still looking. Told her to go home and get some rest. But my old partner—my mentor—he was a different breed. Old school. Grew up in a small town where folks believed in ghosts and curses and all that shit. He looked at me and said, 'Liu, sometimes the dead speak louder than the living.' Then he grabbed his coat, grabbed a shovel, and told the mom to lead the way."
He leaned back in his seat, his eyes dark. "We drove twelve hours. Crossed two state lines. Ended up in a field in the middle of nowhere, just like the mom said. There was a tree there—gnarled, twisted, exactly like she described. And under that tree? A dirt pile. Freshly turned, like someone had buried something there not long ago."
My heart was hammering. I could barely breathe.
"We dug," Liu Ge said, his voice low. "Dug for hours. And then—thud. One of the guys hit something hard. We brushed away the dirt… and there he was. The kid. Wrapped in a garbage bag, just like the mom said. We sent his DNA to the lab. Matched perfectly. Then we went after the guy the mom named—the one the kid had mentioned in the dream. Confessed to the murder before we even finished reading him his rights. Said he'd stabbed the kid over a $500 debt. Fucking ridiculous."
He shook his head, staring at his empty whiskey glass. "I told this story to my captain once. He laughed. Told me I'd been working too hard. Told me to take a vacation. Told me ghosts don't solve crimes—cops do. But I saw that field. I saw that body. I saw that killer break down and cry when we showed him the murder weapon we found in the dumpster the kid had pointed out to me."
He looked up at us, his eyes sharp. "You ask me why more dead folks don't come back and tell their moms who killed 'em? I don't know. Maybe it's not that easy. Maybe the dead only get to speak if they've got something important to say. Something they couldn't leave unsaid. Or maybe it's just… luck. Bad luck for them, good luck for us."
He stubbed out his cigarette, the smoke lingering in the air. "All I know is this—some things in this world, you can't explain. You can't wrap your head around 'em. You can't fit 'em into a neat little box labeled 'evidence' or 'logic.' You just gotta… respect 'em. My old partner used to say that. 'Respect the dead, Liu. They've got nothing left to lose.'"
Meng Yifan and I sat there, silent, absorbing every word. We didn't need to ask if it was true. We knew. We'd been haunted by a dead woman for days. We'd heard her knock. We'd seen her face. We'd smelled the rot on her skin. We believed.
Liu Ge looked at us, his gaze sweeping over our pale faces, our bloodshot eyes, our shaky hands. "I knew something was off with you two the second you walked in," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Hell, you look like you've fought a ghost. I thought you were on drugs, to be honest. But now I know better."
He leaned forward, his voice urgent. "This isn't a joke, you know. This isn't some horror movie where the ghost goes away if you scream loud enough. This is real. And if you don't fix it? It's gonna kill you. Slowly. Or fast. Either way, you're gonna end up dead if you don't do something about it."
Meng Yifan and I practically leaped across the table, like he'd just handed us a lifeline. "Liu Ge," Meng Yifan said, his voice cracking. "We don't know what to do. We're just two real estate guys. We don't know the first thing about ghosts or curses or any of this shit. You gotta help us. Please. We're begging you."
Liu Ge nodded, like he'd been waiting for us to ask. "I figured you'd say that. Lucky for you, I know a guy. Old timer. Goes by Seventh Uncle Zhao. From up north. Tough as nails. Drinks like a fish. Cusses like a sailor. But he's got skills. Back in the day, when the department had a case that didn't make sense—when things went bump in the night, when evidence vanished into thin air—we'd call him. He'd show up, light a few incense sticks, mutter some words in Mandarin, and boom. Problem solved."
He scribbled an address and a phone number on a napkin, sliding it across the table to me. The handwriting was messy, but I could read it. "He's got a little shop downtown. Sells antiques, mostly. But don't let that fool you. He's seen more shit than any cop I know. Just one thing—he's got a temper. Big one. Don't piss him off. Don't lie to him. And for God's sake, be polite. He's an old man. Respect your elders."
I folded the napkin carefully, tucking it into my pocket like it was a treasure. Like it was the key to saving my life. "We will," I said, nodding so fast my neck hurt. "We'll be on our best behavior. Promise."
Liu Ge waved a hand, dismissing the promise. "One more thing. You asked about a photo of Li Xiumei. I checked. She grew up poor—no family photos, no school pictures, nothing like that. But she had a driver's license once. A passport, too, back when she was still Li Yujiao. I can get my hands on those photos. Gonna cost you, though. Bribes don't pay for themselves. $200 should cover it."
I didn't hesitate. "Done. Whatever it takes. Just get me the photos."
The bill came a few minutes later—$450 for the steak, the wine, the crayfish, the works. It was a fortune, but I didn't care. I paid it without a second thought. This wasn't a meal. This was an investment. An investment in my life.
We walked Liu Ge out to his car, shaking his hand one last time. "Keep in touch," he said, sliding into the driver's seat. "And if your dad really is Chen Guowen? You let me know. I'll keep an eye on the case. Off the books."
My throat tightened. I nodded, unable to speak.
Then he drove away, leaving Meng Yifan and me standing on the sidewalk, the night air cold against our skin, the weight of everything we'd learned hanging heavy over us.
"Is it really your dad?" Meng Yifan asked, his voice quiet, his face full of worry. We'd grown up together—his family was my family. My dad was his uncle. The thought of him being mixed up in a murder case, a ghost case, was eating him alive.
I shrugged, my shoulders heavy. "I don't know," I said, my voice hollow. "But all the pieces fit. The name. The glasses. The accent. Grandpa sounded weird on the phone. Dad's phone is off. It's him. It has to be." I paused, my jaw tight. "But he didn't kill anyone. I know he didn't. My dad's a good man. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
Meng Yifan sighed, clapping me on the back. "We'll figure it out. Tomorrow. We'll go see Seventh Uncle Zhao first thing. Then we'll go talk to your dad. Together."
We were both drunk—too drunk to drive—so we called two separate rideshare drivers. Meng Yifan didn't want to go home. Didn't want to hear the knocking again. Said he was gonna crash at a spa downtown, pay for a private room, sleep for twelve hours straight. I didn't blame him. I wanted to do the same.
But I couldn't. I had to go home. Had to talk to my dad. Had to look him in the eye and ask him if he was the first owner of that house. If he knew Li Xiumei. If he knew she was buried behind that wall.
My driver pulled up a few minutes later—a beat-up sedan that smelled like cigarettes and fast food. I climbed in, gave him my parents' address, and stared out the window as the city lights blurred past. My mind was a mess. Ghosts. Murderers. My dad. The little girl who'd vanished fifteen years ago. The photo taped to my door. The red high heel on Meng Yifan's doorstep.
It was all connected. I could feel it. Like a spiderweb, stretching out in front of me, every thread leading back to that house. Back to Li Xiumei. Back to my dad.
The car pulled up in front of my parents' apartment building—a tiny, run-down place with peeling paint and a broken elevator. I paid the driver $30, thanked him, and climbed out. The night was quiet. Too quiet. No crickets. No cars. No wind. Just that same heavy, suffocating silence that followed Li Xiumei wherever she went.
I stared up at the third-floor window—the one with the curtains drawn. My dad's window. My mom's window. My grandpa's window.
Home.
But it didn't feel like home anymore. Not after tonight. Not after everything I'd learned.
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the front door. I had questions. And my dad was gonna give me answers. One way or another.