Volume One, Chapter 9: The Death of the Dancer (Part 2)

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Gazing at that social media post for a long time, I should have felt worried, yet instead, an inexplicable sense of relief washed over me. The scattered resentment that had built up in recent days due to Lin Chi’s indifference gradually faded, providing a justification for his attitude toward me.

I opened the chat window with Lin Chi on WeChat, typed “Lin Chi, you…” but hesitated and stopped. Finally, I mustered the words and sent, “Lin Chi, I saw your post. I’m worried. Is something wrong?”

After sending the message, I stared at the chat screen. Ten minutes passed without a reply, then half an hour, then an hour—still silence. The whole time, it felt like a bucket hanging overhead, ready to be dumped over my head repeatedly, each new bucket following hard upon the last. This cycle continued until my heart burned hot and then turned to ashes.

“Hey, Hao Zheng, are you feeling okay?” Xiao Liu, who had taken over my work, suddenly broke into my thoughts with her voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” I replied reflexively, still caught off guard.

“I noticed your complexion looks off.” She pointed at my face with concern.

Faced with her care, I didn’t know how to respond.

Then she leaned closer, lowering her voice: “Hey, did you see the news about Ke Beibei’s suicide? Such a pity.”

Looking at that youthful face barely out of her twenties, naïve and honest with surprise and confusion written plainly upon it, it was somehow pleasing to the eye.

“In a few days, she was supposed to have her final performance since withdrawing from the scene. My boyfriend bought tickets. Now that this has happened, do you think we can get a refund?” She kept talking to herself, “No, I’ll call and check. Hao Zheng, I won’t keep you now. Also, drink more water, your face looks terrible.”

Watching her hurry away, a wave of melancholy surged within me. I felt an urge to find someone to truly discuss the life of the departed and the feelings of the living. Around me, colleagues busily worked, and the crowded subway ride home brought a strange sensation—bodies painfully close but souls miles apart.

I suddenly chuckled at my own sentimentality, my fingers mechanically scrolling through the internet for information on Ke Beibei, hoping to uncover the truth behind her suicide through scattered clues. I read through netizens’ comments, seeking kindred spirits.

Unconsciously, I kept scrolling until dawn. Seeing the time, I hurried to shower.

My mind finally stilled, yet I faintly sensed a shadow within me lighting up with excitement, gloating: “Useless, now there’s work to do again.”

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To this day, I feel as though two beings reside inside me: one is the not-so-bright me, the other is her—shrouded in unknown dangers and terrors, yet undeniably clever. Many case deductions happen with her silently assisting me.

Just thinking this was already eerie enough to make my hairs stand on end, a chill ran down my spine, followed by a series of sneezes. Then I realized the water from the shower was cold—I guessed the gas had run out—so I hastily dried off.

Reflecting on myself, beyond work, my greatest pastime is indulging in all sorts of entertainment gossip. I often think that if I weren’t a cop, I might have made a decent tabloid reporter. Over the next few days, my interest in Ke Beibei’s suicide grew unabated during work breaks, while Lin Chi’s matter, helplessly shelved, continued to gnaw at me.

The dance troupe Ke Beibei belonged to released a black-and-white photo of her through their official PR channel, expressing sorrow, confusion, and respect for her decision.

Dancers and celebrities who had worked with her posted old photos on Weibo, accompanied by words of mourning and regret—each message varied in length and emotional tone, revealing the warmth and coldness of human nature.

Naturally, the comment section was filled with gossipers debating her suicide:

“Some say she had depression.”

“Others speculate she just announced her marriage days ago; maybe a love affair gone wrong?”

“Then there are conspiracy theorists claiming entertainment industry’s dark secrets were involved.”

“Some lament, ‘Another Shiri lost.’”

“Even baselessly sighing, ‘When a snowflake collapses, no snowflake is innocent.’”

…

Her suicide left many mysteries and guesses, and her fans later revealed numerous charitable acts she had done, dubbing her the top philanthropist in the entertainment industry.

Her good deeds were officially confirmed by state media, and people said, “An angel has returned to heaven.”

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The uproar over dancer Ke Beibei’s suicide lasted for several days, and as usual, such events eventually fade.

But unexpectedly, the police hotline received another call—the deceased could not rest in peace so soon.

It was reported that the dance troupe’s building was besieged by her fervent fans, who vociferously condemned her manager, demanding an apology on their knees.

The fans believed the manager and troupe leader had failed in their duties to protect their goddess. Their reasoning was simple: Ke Beibei was about to marry, but the manager refused to let her go, driving her to despair and ultimately to death.

The troupe called the police, reporting that fans gathered at the entrance, hurling bottled water, rotten eggs, and spilled milk inside. As the situation escalated, someone even threw dog feces in, terrifying the troupe members into locking the doors tightly, unwilling to go outside.

The police dispatched several officers, arrested a few ringleaders on charges of “disturbing the peace,” and gave verbal warnings. Only then was the situation subdued.

While indulging in the gossip, I kept checking WeChat messages, but several more days passed with no word from Lin Chi. Night after night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I lost my appetite for a time, only to binge eat later, my stomach aching by bedtime.

Seeing my sapped, haggard state, my best friend Lao Liao was heartbroken. She insisted on confronting him, making several calls that went straight to voicemail. Furious, she held me close, whispering comfort while cursing “that deadbeat” under her breath.

Just then, early one morning, our precinct received a new case, pulling me from my sorrow.

This time, it was a very clear-cut homicide.