Psychological fragments

"And another thing," Fang Jue's fingertips once again probed into the kraft paper file folder. The rustling sound of the paper rubbing together was particularly clear in the dimly lit living room with the thick curtains drawn. He pulled out a sheet of printing paper and pushed it in front of me along the cool glass coffee table. "Take a look at this."

I reached out and took it. It was a neatly printed list, the names, ages, occupations, and death information in bold font, like lines of cold epitaphs, piercing straight into my eyes:

Chen Jianguo, male, 52 years old, a psychological counselor from H City, died in a car accident on March 18, 2017.

Li Minhua, female, 48 years old, a psychological counselor, from City C, drowned on May 21, 2018.

- Zhang Mingyuan, male, 55 years old, psychological counselor, from City D, fell from a building on July 15, 2019.

- Wang Xiuying, female, 50 years old, psychological counselor, from G City, suffered carbon monoxide poisoning on September 3, 2020.

Zhao Zhiqiang, male, 53 years old, a psychological counselor from City B, went missing on November 29, 2021.

- Sun Lihua, female, 49 years old, a psychological counselor, from City A, died in a car accident on April 17, 2022.

"These are the six psychologists who died." Fang Jue's voice was deep. "Each of them died within a few months after Zhao Min sought their services under an alias. Each one was ruled out as an accident, and each one was ultimately ruled out as homicide."

My fingertips slid down the pages, line by line, my gaze fixed on the names, the manners of death, and the dates at the end.

3月18日，5月21日，7月15日，9月3日，11月29日，4月17日。

These numbers spun wildly in my mind, vaguely suggesting some hidden pattern, but no matter how hard I tried, I only managed to grasp nothing.

"You noticed?" Fang Jue looked at my tense profile.

"The intervals between each date are roughly two months?" I frowned. "Except for the last one, the difference between the first and last ones is too great."

我在心里飞快地计算着：3月18日到5月21日，63天；5月21日到7月15日，55天；7月15日到9月3日，50天；9月3日到11月29日，87天；11月29日到次年4月17日，139天。

There is absolutely no pattern to it; it doesn't even have a barely discernible cycle.

"It's not a time interval." Fang Jue shook his head, pointing his finger to the date on the page. "It's the date itself. Look at the month and day numbers."

I looked down again and read the date list once more.

3月18日，5月21日，7月15日，9月3日，11月29日，4月17日。

3、5、7、9、11、4。

18、21、15、3、29、17。

The numbers were jumping around in front of me, but I still couldn't see any connection. My mind was like a tangled mess, and the more I tried to sort it out, the more confused I became.

"Never mind." Fang Jue withdrew his hand and put the paper back into the file folder. "This might not be important now. What's important is the next one."

He pulled a third sheet of paper from the file folder and pushed it in front of me.

This is a screenshot from a security camera. The image is a bit blurry, and the lighting is natural afternoon light. A middle-aged woman is standing on the street, wearing a faded navy blue coat. She has an ordinary appearance, with plain features—so ordinary that she would disappear completely in a crowd within three seconds. But I can recognize the glass door behind her with my eyes closed—it's the main entrance to my clinic. The clinic's name on the signboard is clearly visible, down to the worn edges.

"Who is this?" My fingertips felt a little cold.

"He Xiuying," Fang Jue said, "Zhao Min's biological mother. This photo was taken three days ago, at 3 p.m. on the day of the second incident, by the security camera at the convenience store across from the clinic. She stood there, staring at your clinic's entrance across the street, for a full hour without moving an inch."

I stared intently at the face in the photo. It was this woman. The woman with the old, hoarse voice from the phone call. The murderer who might have killed six people, with seven lives on her hands. Her face was so ordinary, so unremarkable, yet those eyes, even through the blurry surveillance footage, sent chills down my spine. It was an almost empty gaze, as if she were staring intently at some target, or as if her soul had long since drifted away, leaving only an empty shell standing there, seeing nothing at all.

"She started stalking Zhao Min before the first murder in 2013." Fang Jue's voice pulled me back to reality. "From south to north, she moved from city to city for ten years. Every time Zhao Min went to a new place, met someone, or saw a psychologist, she would silently appear by that person's side. And then, that person would die."

"You mean, she also killed those four male victims in the previous case file?" I suddenly looked up.

"Yes." Fang Jue nodded. "We've been reviewing those four old cases for the past three days. Although there was no direct evidence pointing to her at the scene, looking back now, we found that in the week before each victim's death, witnesses saw a middle-aged woman with features that closely matched hers loitering near the victim's home or downstairs at their office. It's exactly the same as the situation with these six psychologists."

I put down the photo, slumped back heavily into the sofa, my mind a jumbled mess. So Zhao Min wasn't the killer? Not that serial killer who'd been on the run for seven years? She was just a fugitive? "She might be nothing at all," Fang Jue said, looking at my pale face, each word distinct. "Just a daughter who's been followed by her own mother for ten whole years."

This answer completely contradicts all my previous guesses and understanding. I always thought Zhao Min was a blood-stained wanted criminal, a sinner who came to me seeking solace with a secret. I even suspected, after her death, that she was faking her death to escape punishment. But now it seems that she was a victim from beginning to end.

A victim trapped in a cage, tightly controlled by a paranoid mother, consumed by her insane possessiveness, and killed by everyone who tried to approach or help her.

"Then why did she come to me?" My voice trembled slightly. "Why did she keep seeing a therapist?"

Fang Jue looked at me, his eyes filled with understanding and a hint of barely perceptible regret.

"I've thought about this problem for three whole days," he said. "In the end, I could only think of one possibility."

"What?"

"She might be calling for help."

Help?

These two words exploded in my mind like a thunderclap, making my eardrums buzz.

She came to me not to treat her insomnia, not to find someone to talk to, and not to vent her inexplicable obsessions. She was crying for help. She knew her mother was watching her closely, knew everyone who came near her would die, and knew she would be next. So she repeatedly pushed open the door of the counseling room, desperately sending me SOS signals with incoherent words and nonsensical questions.

But I didn't understand. I didn't do anything. I just sat in the chair, listened to her talk, and wrote "The client's emotions are stable, and consolidation therapy is recommended" in the consultation record book, responding to her dying cry for help with the most professional and safest language.

She died. She died just two steps away from my office.

"Dr. Shen." Fang Jue's voice pulled me back from my chaotic thoughts. "I know what you're thinking. But it's not your fault. You don't know anything; no one told you the whole story."

"But I should have known." I gritted my teeth, my throat tightening. "She said so many strange things, asked the same questions over and over again, all of them were full of flaws, and I didn't take any of it to heart. I didn't even ask her if she had any siblings."

"Because you're a psychologist, not a detective." Fang Jue's tone was calm, yet reassuring. "Your job is to listen to your clients and help them resolve their inner conflicts, not to investigate cases and catch criminals."

I shook my head, not wanting to discuss this topic any further. No amount of comfort could erase the feeling of helplessness of watching someone die right before your eyes.

"And now?" I looked up at Fang Jue. "Where is He Xiuying? Have they caught her?"

"I don't know." Fang Jue shook his head, his brows furrowed. "After the second incident, she completely disappeared. The last time the surveillance cameras captured her was in the alley behind your clinic at 4:40. After that, there was no trace of her in any of the city's surveillance footage."

Where was she then? Was she watching the chaos in the clinic from the alleyway? Or was she already mixed in with the crowd, coldly observing everything, and then silently disappearing into the sea of ​​people?

I don't know. But the image of that cold, piercing phone call from that night flashed through my mind.

"Officer Fang." I sat up abruptly. "I received a phone call."

He instantly looked up, his eyes sharpening, his entire demeanor tense: "When?"

"The night of the incident, after you left, around 2 a.m.," I said, "a strange out-of-town number, a woman's voice, old and hoarse. She told me, 'Dr. Shen, you shouldn't have investigated.' She also said... 'She's mine, she's always been mine, and no one can take her away.'"

Fang Jue's expression changed instantly.

"Why didn't you tell me back then?" His tone carried a hint of sternness that was barely perceptible.

"My mind was completely blank at the time. I thought it was just a regular threatening phone call." I clenched my fists. "And at that time, I hadn't fully connected He Xiuying with the whole incident. I hadn't thought about it in depth at all."