I slept with my sister's classmate, and she turned out to be my boss.

It was past eight o'clock in the evening.

Zhao Zhengping was sitting in his study, flipping through some documents.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen; there was no name saved in the contacts.

But he recognized that number—

It's the middleman who relayed Zeng Zhiyuan's message last time.

He hesitated for a moment, but still answered the call.

There were no pleasantries on the other end of the phone; the voice was very low.

"Governor Zhao, Elder Zeng asked me to tell you that Sun Desheng has been implicated. We may need to coordinate our statements on some matters."

Zhao Zhengping held his phone but didn't answer immediately.

Sun Desheng —

He certainly remembered the name; it belonged to a former vice governor who was later transferred to a ministry in Beijing.

"A unified message?"

He repeated the three words, as if to make sure he hadn't misheard.

"What Mr. Zeng meant was that if you are asked about certain things, you shouldn't say what you shouldn't say, and you should say what you should say correctly."

Zhao Zhengping was silent for two seconds—

What does it mean to say: "Don't say what shouldn't be said, and say what should be said correctly"?

He replied with three words: "Understood."

The phone hangs up.

He leaned back in his chair, mentally reviewing the contents of the phone call he had just received—

Zeng Zhiyuan started to get nervous.

As soon as Sun Desheng's name appeared, he panicked, eager to get everyone to speak with one voice and to plug any possible cracks.

But the phrase "unified messaging" itself is a signal.

This suggests that Zeng Zhiyuan himself was unsure which aspects had already been uncovered.

He just wanted to shut up everything that could be said before the task force could.

Zhao Zhengping sat for a long time, then stood up, walked to the cabinet, squatted down, and opened the bottom shelf.

There were several stacks of old files inside.

Most of them are project materials from a few years ago, and some are covered in a layer of dust.

These things should have been kept at the workplace.

But he has a habit of taking important documents out of the office and keeping a copy for himself, which makes him feel more at ease.

He pulled out one of the stacks, flipped through it for a while, and found the attachment to the meeting minutes for the provincial capital project—

The supplementary explanation materials he signed back then.

He turned to the first page, his gaze falling on the line of text in the bottom right corner of the second page.

That was his own handwriting, blue-black ink, the characters neat and clear:

"Funding arrangements have been finalized."

There was no date or stamp next to it, only this line of text.

At the time, he probably just wanted to mark the progress before archiving, thinking it was unimportant.

But at this moment, the task force is verifying the flow of funds one by one.

The weight of these words is completely different.

He did not destroy this material.

I never imagined that one day it would become evidence related to me.

Zhao Zhengping stared at that line of annotations for a long time, then closed the file, put it back in its place, closed the cabinet door, stood up, walked back to his desk, and sat down.

He thought to himself—

If the task force finds this document and sees that line of annotation, how would he explain it?

They said those were normal work records?

Does that mean the funds were indeed in place as planned at the time?

Or did you just casually add a note that had no real meaning?

Each explanation makes sense, but none of them are convincing enough.

A signature can be interpreted as part of the normal procedure, but handwritten annotations are different—

Those were his own words; no one could write them for him.

If the timelines don't match, these few words are the evidence.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to Zeng Zhiyuan's number, looked at the name on the screen, but didn't dial.

He can't make that call now, because it would leave a record.

Call logs, cell tower location, duration, and time will all be retrieved.

If he takes the initiative to contact Zeng Zhiyuan, he is putting himself on a more dangerous line.

He put down his phone and went into the living room, where his wife was sitting on the sofa watching TV.

His wife had told him before that there was an unopened box of tea in the drawer under the coffee table.

Zhao Zhengping walked over, bent down to take it out, and glanced at the packaging.

"Get rid of this box of tea. Don't keep it at home."

His wife paused for a moment, then turned to look at him:

"What should we do with it? Throw it away?"

"Okay. Throw it far away, not nearby."

His wife glanced at the box of tea, then at his expression, and without asking any questions, took it and placed it beside her.

"I'll take it downstairs at the office and throw it away tomorrow."

Zhao Zhengping didn't say anything more, turned around and went back to his study, closing the door behind him.

He sat at his desk, and the thought from earlier resurfaced—

Proactively explain the situation to the organization.

This idea had crossed his mind several times.

Every time it just pops up, it gets suppressed by itself.

Taking the initiative to explain means admitting that you know something, and it means explaining Zeng Zhiyuan, Sun Desheng, and all the links in that financial chain.

But once you open your mouth, there's no turning back.

How will Zeng Zhiyuan react?

How will Sun Desheng react?

Will those connections he thought were completely severed resurface because of his initiative?

He thought about it for a long time, but still couldn't make a decision.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the night view outside.

The streetlights were on, people walked by, and people rode by on electric bikes; everything seemed normal.

Ever since that phone call from Beijing.

He hadn't had such a quiet moment to look at the outside world in a long time.

He sighed softly, turned back to his desk, sat down again, opened a drawer, took out an old notebook, turned to a blank page, picked up a pen, and wrote a few lines—

This is not explanatory material; it's just outlining the timeline.

He listed out the timeline of the provincial capital project, the steps he signed, and the date range of the annotations.

After he finished writing it, he read it over and drew a line under the words "funding arrangements have been finalized" and put a question mark next to it.

Then he closed the notebook, put it back in the drawer, neither destroying it nor hiding it, just leaving it there.

He didn't know if he would ever need these records.

But destruction is useless...

He sat back in his chair for a long time, then picked up his phone and found his daughter Zhao Yike's number.

The finger hovers above, hesitating whether to press down.

A few seconds later, he put down his phone.

Making a phone call at this time is not a wise choice...

My daughter is currently abroad, and as long as she doesn't come back, she should be safe.

After a long while, there was a knock on the door.

He glanced back; his wife gently pushed open the door and stood in the doorway, asking:

"Zhengping, you've been in the study for so long, has something happened?"

Zhao Zhengping was stunned for a moment, wondering whether he should tell her the truth.

After hesitating for a few seconds, he gave up the idea.

Telling her won't do her any good; it will only make her worry.

He smiled faintly and replied:

"Nothing much, just looking at some old documents."

The wife paused for a moment.

"Get some rest, it's getting late."

Zhao Zhengping nodded: "Okay, you go to sleep first."