Chapter Eighty-Eight: Investigation

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Inside the police car, Zhou Shen, Zhang Shengnan, and Fang You had just left the studio overseen by Fang Meiqi’s editor. In the studio, Liu Yue, the editor, had died with an expression of guilt and terror, clutching a teddy bear in her right hand, her fingers locked in an eerie and disturbing embrace with it. The scene was chilling. After investigation, it was determined that Liu Yue had died from sheer fright, exactly as described in the novel's chapters.

Now, Zhou Shen, Zhang Shengnan, and Fang You were following the address provided by the studio manager, heading toward the forest cabin rented by Fang Meiqi. With the murders occurring one after another, each death resembling the plot of the novel more closely, the city’s main bureau finally issued a search warrant to Zhou Shen, granting them the opportunity to meet this newly renowned horror novelist, Fang Meiqi, in person.

The police car drove for nearly three hours before reaching a picturesque area beyond the city’s outskirts. Guided by the address, the trio walked along a narrow path and arrived at a small cabin. Zhou Shen stepped forward and knocked on the door. There was movement inside, and then a woman slowly opened the door, revealing only her eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Zhou Shen, we just spoke on the phone. There are some matters we’d like to discuss with you.” Zhou Shen spoke gently, though his gaze was cautious. From what they had observed so far, it was possible that all these murders were orchestrated by Fang Meiqi herself. Perhaps she was the serial killer, staging these crimes to make her novels famous. After all, in this world, there are countless people desperate for fame—some would even resort to murder.

Upon seeing the police, Fang Meiqi noticed the female officer standing behind Zhou Shen, as well as a man dressed in the garb of a Taoist priest. She hesitated for a moment, but eventually opened the door wider.

After Zhou Shen, Fang You, and Zhang Shengnan entered, Fang Meiqi began tidying her cluttered bedroom and prepared three cups of coffee for her guests.

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Zhou Shen, Fang You, and Zhang Shengnan sat at the dining table as Fang Meiqi placed the coffee in front of them and took a seat opposite.

Zhou Shen pushed his work laptop toward Fang Meiqi. “Are these all written by you?”

Fang Meiqi nodded honestly.

“Are you aware that the recent murders mirror the deaths in your novels exactly?” Zhou Shen went straight to the point.

Fang Meiqi stared blankly at her manuscripts, sinking into a daze. “I don’t know what’s happening. Maybe it’s all just coincidence.”

“Coincidence?” Zhou Shen watched Fang Meiqi’s expression closely and pressed on. “One or two times, maybe. But this many—don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence?”

Fang Meiqi’s eyes flickered, but she replied, “I’m simply focused on creating my stories. Perhaps someone who enjoys my novels happens to be a serial killer and is copying the murders from my books. Shouldn’t you be investigating crime scenes, not interrogating a writer? What’s the point in questioning an author?”

With years of experience, Zhou Shen instantly recognized Fang Meiqi’s evasions and lies—she was hiding a secret.

He took a sip of coffee and continued, “I’ve read your earlier works. They seemed rather ordinary, but recently your stories have become remarkably vivid and gripping. It almost feels… as if they were written by someone else, or at least by someone with a completely different imagination. Are you sure these novels aren’t…?”

“Absolutely not plagiarized!” Fang Meiqi suddenly erupted in anger. “These stories are born from my mind, swirling in my thoughts, one after another. You useless policemen—crimes happen, and instead of investigating the killer, you try to pin the blame on a novel!”

“Do you really believe that a novel can kill? If you’re simply incompetent, just admit it—no one will fault you. But to shift the blame onto me, that’s truly disgraceful!”

At the mention of plagiarism, Fang Meiqi became visibly agitated. “For a writer, nothing is more intolerable than being accused of plagiarism!”

Seeing Fang Meiqi’s emotional outburst, Zhou Shen quickly apologized. “I’m sorry; if I misspoke, I apologize. It’s only a suspicion.”

“Next time, I hope you’ll choose your words more carefully before speaking.” Fang Meiqi lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and watched the smoke swirl and disperse, her manner confused and awkward.

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Yet Zhou Shen, deep down, felt certain that the stories in these novels were not truly written by the author before him. The more she defended herself, the more she concealed her inner deceit. People often use anger to mask their fear—it’s a defense mechanism. The greater the desire to hide a fact, the more one feigns strength to cover up vulnerability.

Changing the topic, Zhou Shen spoke with ease, “Actually, I enjoy your novels. I’ve even tipped you over a thousand yuan—the morning’s pay, and my monthly salary is less than five thousand. It’s quite distressing, really.”

Fang Meiqi, upon hearing that Zhou Shen was a reader who had tipped her, relaxed. “So you’re a fan?”

She handed Zhou Shen a cigarette. “If you could become a top supporter, that would be even better.”

Her tone softened; after all, a writer’s livelihood depends on readers’ subscriptions and tips. Without them, a writer can only struggle through hard times.

“So, when will you update next?” Zhou Shen accepted the cigarette, pretending to ask casually, though his anticipation was genuine.

“Don’t rush me, and don’t push for updates. Writers need inspiration.” Fang Meiqi rose and walked to the balcony. “Inspiration is a precious thing. Sometimes, my thoughts get stuck, like trying to force an egg into a narrow-necked bottle. Too much force and the egg breaks; too little and it won’t go in. Without inspiration, there’s nothing.”

“True, writers face immense pressure. But I’m really looking forward to your next update,” Zhou Shen continued, keeping the conversation on this topic, for whenever the author updated, another murder seemed to follow.

“I think I’ve already updated,” Fang Meiqi glanced at her wristwatch. “I scheduled it for automatic release—it should have published three minutes ago.”

“What? You’ve already updated?”