America: The neighbor's wife is so incredibly hospitable!

Chen An raised an eyebrow.

Is this what they call "tsundere"?

"Since it's the chef's invitation, it's my honor."

A reserved table in the corner of the restaurant.

A pristine white porcelain plate was placed in front of Chen An.

The dish on the plate is a risotto that looks like a work of art.

The rice grains are plump and translucent, soaked in broth and cream, each one coated with a rich sauce.

The morel mushrooms he delivered last night had now been sliced ​​thinly.

After being toasted in butter, it exudes an irresistible, caramelized aroma.

It's served as a garnish over the risotto and finally topped with a layer of Parmesan cheese shreds like snowflakes.

Chen An picked up a spoon and took a bite.

Rich, delicious, and with a complex and layered flavor.

The unique crispness and nutty aroma of morel mushrooms burst in your mouth, blending perfectly with the creamy smoothness.

"How is it?"

Before anyone knew it, Katie had quietly stood by the table.

She crossed her arms and raised her chin slightly, seemingly indifferent, but the tips of her ears were actually trembling slightly, waiting for her evaluation.

"Hmm..." Chen An deliberately dragged out his tone, watching the girl's increasingly nervous expression.

Then he slowly said, "If this isn't illegal, I want to kidnap you and take you back to cook for me every day."

Katie froze for a moment, then her whole face turned as red as a boiled shrimp.

"You...you're spouting nonsense!" She stamped her foot in a panic, then turned and ran.

"As long as it tastes good! Hurry up and finish eating, get out of here, I'm busy!"

Watching her petite figure flee in disarray, Chen An smiled and shook his head, continuing to enjoy this expensive free lunch.

He now has another bargaining chip in this small town.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

After finishing his meal, Chen An drove to the "Harry Hardware Store" that had been robbed the day before.

The atmosphere in the store was somewhat somber.

Old Harry, with his full head of white hair, was complaining to several regular customers.

"Damn it, they stole the industrial detonators I wanted to use to blast open that rock behind the mountain!"

"That thing, if you're not careful, could send half a city block flying into the air!"

"What did the sheriff say?" someone asked.

"That piece of trash Reynolds? Humph, he said he's checking the surveillance footage, but my crappy camera is just static!" Old Harry cursed.

Chen An walked in calmly, as if he hadn't heard these words, and went straight to the shelf.

He bought a brand new roll of copper pipe, some pipe fittings, and a large bucket of waterproofing paint.

When paying the bill, he casually asked, "Boss, I heard you lost something? Is this area unsafe?"

Old Harry glanced at him and recognized him as the new farmer.

"If it were just an ordinary thief, that would be one thing, but this is explosives."

"Hey kid, you're living at that lousy George's house, aren't you? You'd better lock your door."

"If any unfamiliar cars pass by, just shoot them. I'll vouch for you if anything happens."

"Thank you for reminding me, I will pay attention." Chen An nodded politely.

Back in the car, Chen An glanced at the can of paint on the passenger seat, his eyes darkening.

Why did Tom steal the detonator?

Was it really just like when he dug that hole, in order to find the so-called "George's treasure"?

Or is someone behind this?

Just then, Chen An suddenly saw in his rearview mirror that a black Jeep Cherokee was following him at a distance.

The car seemed to have been there ever since he left the restaurant.

Chen An tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

He doesn't remember offending anyone.

Was it because the mushrooms were selling too well? Or was it Tom's creditors?

He didn't speed up his escape, but maintained a steady pace while humming a song.

One hand had already quietly reached for the hunting knife placed under the seat.

The car turned onto the farm's gravel road.

The jeep didn't follow, but stopped at the intersection for a moment, seemingly observing something, before turning around and driving away.

"That's interesting."

Chen An parked his car, looked in the direction the car had gone, and noted down the blurry license plate number that flashed by.

Go back inside.

He first put down the materials he had bought, and then took off his windbreaker.

Suddenly, his gaze fell on the fireplace in the living room.

It was too cold yesterday, he didn't notice.

Upon closer inspection today, one of the stones above the fireplace, which is made of piled-up rocks, is still loose.

Compared to the colors of the other stones, this one appears somewhat out of place with its smooth surface.

That was the spot directly opposite where Uncle George often sat on the armchair.

Chen An walked over and reached out to grab the stone.

Pull hard.

"Click".

The stone didn't fall; instead, it was pulled out like a drawer.

There is a hidden compartment behind it.

Chen An's heart started racing.

He reached in and touched something cold and metallic.

It's neither a gold bar nor a banknote.

Instead, it was a heavy M1911 pistol, completely wrapped in tarpaulin.

Beneath the pistol lay a yellowed diary, with a line written on the cover:

[If I die, leave this to my silly nephew, the only one who still remembers to send me a Chinese New Year card. —George]

Chen An took a deep breath.

It seems that this legacy is heavier and more interesting than imagined.

The wind outside the window stopped, but the night grew even darker.

Chen An sat on the single sofa that looked like it might collapse at any moment, toying with the M1911 pistol he had just taken out of the hidden compartment.

This is a very old Colt. Although there is some wear on the surface,

The wood grain on the grip was blackened by sweat, but the mechanical structure remained perfect.

You can even smell a faint scent of maintenance oil in the gun barrel.

Although Uncle George was slovenly, he clearly cherished his weapons more than his house.

".45 caliber, excellent stopping power."

Chen An skillfully pulled back the slide to check the magazine. Seven bullets, plus one in the chamber, made a total of eight.

In this wilderness, if you're not careful, it might take half an hour to get someone to answer the phone if you call the police.

These eight bullets provide a greater sense of security than any legal provision.

After confirming the gun was safe, he placed it on the coffee table and reached for the yellowed diary.

The diary was thin and not full. The first few pages were mostly George's ramblings about the weather, cattle prices, and complaints about previous presidents, written in messy handwriting and full of spelling errors.

Until the last few pages, the handwriting became forceful and deep.

【XNUM X Year X NUM X Month X NUM X Day】

That idiot Tom is lurking around the fence again. Does he think I don't know what he's looking for?

He was looking for the spring that the "Red Rock Development Company" had mentioned to me.

There is water beneath this land, possibly even a huge tributary of an underground river.

Those vampires in suits want to buy this land, build a water plant, and turn it into that damn 'premium mineral water'.

I refused. I don't need the money, I just want peace and quiet. But that mouse Tom heard the rumors.