It Was Not a Murder Chapter 1

Five years after Olivia Su's death, I unexpectedly received a call from "her".

When I came to my senses, I had already bought a plane ticket and rushed to Nanjing overnight.

As soon as the plane landed, passengers rushed to unfasten their seat belts and restart their phones to get the ground information they had missed in the past four hours.

My phone kept vibrating with 19 missed calls, 16 of which were from department heads.

It's better to keep the phone turned off. I made a rational judgment, but instinctively pressed the call back but.ton, perhaps due to years of workplace habits.

The call was connected almost instantly, and the department manager's anxious voice came from the other end of the line, "I don't want to hear any explanation or reasons. Come back to the company immediately."

"I submitted the sick leave process."

"Who approved it? Did I approve it?"

The roar stung my eardrums, and I moved my phone five centimeters away from my ear. The plane taxied and slowed down, and passengers unloaded their luggage from the luggage racks and lined up in the cabin aisle.

"It's raining heavily. It will be troublesome to get a taxi later." Someone said while looking out the window.

The rain was pouring down, and streams of water trickled down the window glass. The rows of runway lights, the ground staff wearing raincoats, and the terminal huddled in the corner of the field of vision, everything was dimmed in the rain curtain of the white night, just like a film. This city is associated with too many gloomy memories, and I thought I would never come back in my lifetime.

"Do you know how important the project at hand is? The year-end KPI assessment depends on it. The whole team is working overtime, and you actually want to take a day off, a whole day?" The roar in my ear increased in decibels again.

The crowd in the corridor began to flow in an orderly manner, like sardines in a can. I thought the hatch had been opened. I decided to end the conversation firmly.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you. I know this is hard to explain, but I have no other choice. How about this? I'll write a letter of resignation and fax the original signed copy to you as soon as possible. Please pass it to your superiors. You can make up any reason for your resignation. Just blame me for any problems or responsibilities."

There was silence for a long while.

When the other party spoke again, his voice became completely weak, "No need. Can you come back tomorrow?"

"No problem, one day is enough."

But I didn't keep my promise after all.

I didn't go back after my three-day sick leave.

On the fifth day after I lost all contact, the company's HR department finally called the police, and the police began a formal investigation. From that day on, I disappeared from the eyes of the world for more than a month.

After hanging up the phone with my department head, I left the airport, got on the subway, and headed downtown.

The rain on the ground has not stopped yet.

The rain was surprisingly persistent. It stopped briefly when I left the airport, but returned with low clouds in the blink of an eye, like a persistent salesman.

According to the navigation, the destination of this trip is only a hundred meters away from the subway station exit - a 20-story office building. The building is brand new, and the glass curtain wall is shining even in the continuous rain. The door is decorated with a large gold-plated logo (Sterlin).

As soon as I entered the room, I heard more than a dozen people arguing and shouting that they wanted to see the person in charge of Sterlin. Seven or eight expressionless security guards formed a human wall, blocking the entrance to the elevator.

I avoided the crowd and walked around the front desk. Suddenly, I saw a beautiful woman with chestnut curly hair standing by the wall. She was wearing a proper business suit and holding a walkie-talkie, calmly observing the development of the quarrel. Her expression did not show the immaturity she had when she was a new employee. If it weren't for the name and position on the badge on her chest, I would hardly be sure that she was my former subordinate.

I approached the woman and explained my purpose. She responded with an unadorned indifference, "We won't accept anyone without an appointment."

"It's me. I was in charge of investment business in my previous company."

She looked confused and examined my face carefully. Then she smiled like an iceberg melting. "It's President Qin. Look at me, I didn't recognize you at first glance. You haven't come to the company for a long time."

"What's the noise over there?"

"In any business there are picky customers," she said vaguely.

I didn't ask any further questions. After all, I wasn't here to learn about the company's operating conditions. "I'm looking for Max Liu. Is he on a business trip?"

She pressed the intercom but.ton, spoke in a low voice, and then asked the security personnel to make way for only one person to pass through. "Director Liu is waiting for you in the office."

The chairman's office on the seventh floor is as spacious as Carnegie Hall, but the design is surprisingly clean and smooth.

The floor is covered with light white marble and cotton and linen carpets, which contrast with the bright yellow sofa. The Bauhaus-style desk is placed with a glazed vase and an I Mac all-in-one computer. On the wall hangs a postmodern abstract painting composed of plain lines - the style of Marc DeGrange, which may be an authentic work. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the south side replace the wall, facing the center of the street, but no noise can be heard.

Max stood up from his desk. Compared to the last time I saw him five years ago, his appearance had changed a lot. His body had become thinner and his excess fat had almost completely disappeared.

"I'm sorry to bother you so early in the morning." I apologized first, "I forgot to let you know in advance."

"How could that be?" He held my hand and squeezed it with just the right amount of force. "It's always a joy to meet old friends again."
 
He pulled me to sit on the same side of the sofa and asked his secretary to make some good tea.

While waiting for the tea to be served, he squinted his eyes and looked at my face carefully. His expression was as if he was inspecting a long-covered laboratory instrument.

"I heard you changed your career to become a programmer."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment change of career - I thought since I was living in a new city, I might as well change my lifestyle completely."

"Not bad, this is an emerging industry with unlimited prospects."

"Don't make fun of me. I work in a business where you have to trade your life for money. I work overtime every day and I'm so tired that I can't tell the difference between day and night. But because of this, I don't have time to think about extra things and I sleep much better." I looked around the office, which was so expensive, "My career is going well."

"Oh. Not bad." He coughed, "Thanks to you."

"I?"

"The main business of this company is the same as when you left," he said sincerely, "it's just bigger in scale."

"Don't be so modest," I said with a smile. "Before I resigned, the so-called investment company was just a name for show. It was essentially a small sales team without even a fixed office space. It has grown into the size of a group in just five years. No matter how you think about it, it's all your credit."

"No need to be polite," he replied calmly, "You know what the company's main business is, right? I'm sure you don't think much of me if I insist on doing this business."

I was speechless. I had never thought about this question. Besides, it didn't seem appropriate to have a binary choice of like or dislike for the person in front of me.

I carefully explained: "It has nothing to do with personal feelings, business is another matter..."

He raised a hand to stop me from saying anything further.

"You don't have to be so cautious, and you don't have to consider my feelings. I was aware of this when I chose this path."

Silence fell, and the thick soundproof walls absorbed even our desire to talk. Max slowly turned the silver lighter in his palm, but he was reluctant to light the cigarette, probably because he was concerned about my allergy to smoke.

"You're here for more than just a chat about career planning, right?" he asked.

"I want to talk about the past." I answered simply.

"Well, you're welcome, it's the old days."

"It's Olivia's business."

"oh?"

"About her death."

Max narrowed his eyes, then relaxed his brows as if relieved, and raised a faint smile, "If it were someone else, I would have sent them away long ago if they mentioned her so directly."

"understandable."

He leaned back against the sofa cushions, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

"If possible, I really want to forget that day," he said.

"You can't do it, and neither can I."

Max and I have known each other since college, and we have remained close friends since we entered society. When we were young, we were both penniless, and we were the epitome of the modern loser youth. We went to a barbecue stall to eat skewers and drink together on weekends, and played billiards together, until the rainy night when Olivia disappeared. After that, we never met again, and we never even called each other.

Olivia is a girl we both know.

She was said to be missing, but in fact, she was only a hair's breadth away from being confirmed dead. Late at night on November 7, surveillance cameras captured her jumping off a bridge across the river. The weather was abnormal during that period, with heavy rains falling every day and the river water surging. The search and rescue work, with the assistance of fishermen, lasted for quite a while, but ultimately ended in vain.

The key body was not found and the funeral was delayed.

As for the reason for falling into the river, it was announced to the public that it was an accident, but in fact it was suicide.

I learned about this when I was summoned by the police for investigation as one of the persons involved. At first I totally refused to believe it.

"That's impossible. She's not the kind of person who would think too much."

The police officer in charge of recording the statement raised his head, his eyes dark and sunken, "Do you know how many suicide cases our police station handles every year? More than 50. Every week someone falls off the bridge, just like it's raining. I've heard you say this so many times that my ears are callused."

"Do you have evidence? Show me the evidence!"

"It will be your turn to identify the person from the surveillance video soon. Think about it carefully! At two o'clock in the morning, who would go to the bridge alone to enjoy the cold wind without any thoughts of that kind?"

Later I realized that he was telling the truth. Although the surveillance camera footage was blurry, the person in the picture was undoubtedly Olivia. She was wearing a black down jacket, with her long hair tied into a ponytail at the back of her head, and her entire profile could be seen at a glance.

I stared at the surveillance screen for a long time, and could not hear any sound from the outside world. The whole world became a silent space capsule, and the police's questioning became a silent screen - I could only see them opening and closing their mouths frequently.

Olivia appeared in the video for a total of ten seconds, and her expression could not be seen clearly. But there was no doubt that she walked onto the bridge on her own accord...without anyone leading or following her, and without hesitation.

Since that day, I have been living with a sense of regret. Although I have changed cities and jobs during this period, it has no special meaning.

Every morning, I open my eyes, wash my face, and chew the biscuits I bought from the supermarket according to the alarm. I squeeze into the subway to go to work, and "bang bang bang" on the keyboard at my workstation, writing code, repeating the same routine. But there is no perfect code in the world, and people's behavior patterns will occasionally fail. In the dead of night, I often think hard and keep thinking - there is no suicide note for Olivia's death, and there is no motive that can be inferred. The real reason, I even suspect that she herself is not very clear.

I no longer communicate with anyone outside of work, including Max. He also tacitly stopped contacting me. I guess we have the same feelings - the shared memories of the past have become a place to awaken the pain, and the only way to calm the pain and suffocation in our hearts is to escape.

I buried the memories, buried them in the deep frozen soil of my consciousness. I let them fade away with the passage of time, and the pain gradually disappeared. However, the phone call I received last night completely destroyed the results of my years of hard work. I once again had countless doubts about the reason for Olivia's death.
 
In order to find out the truth, I must meet with Max and ask the questions that have never been asked, even if it means completely destroying the bond between us.

"Why did Olivia choose to end his life so hastily? It has always been a mystery to me." I asked myself.

"At this point, I'm afraid no one can explain it."

"That's right. After all, there was no suicide note."

Max frowned unhappily, as if he wanted to argue something, but in the end he said nothing.

"I have checked relevant investigation reports and found that suicide cases without suicide notes are quite rare. Most suicide victims will at least leave a few words: words of apology, distribution of property, reason for death, etc., so as to give some explanation to relatives and friends."

"According to the police, sometimes there is nothing."

"Then why did they rule it a suicide? I mean, there are so many things that are unclear."

"Hey, you're not still trying to say there's something fishy about her death, are you?"

"We are just discussing a possibility. There are things we know that the police don't know."

Max finally couldn't help but light up a cigarette and took a deep sip. "I said, five years have passed. The dead can't be resurrected. The living should also think more about themselves."

I looked at the white mist he exhaled and asked, "Have you seen the surveillance video of the incident?"

"Of course, just like you. The police station won't miss such an obvious suspect."

"Remember? In the video, she was wearing a thick black down jacket. It was the warm clothing she bought for skiing the year before. Looking back, it's strange, isn't it?"

"The temperature was close to zero degrees, wasn't it normal to wear something thicker?"

"When I say weird, I don't mean the thickness of the clothes, I mean the style."

In my impression, Olivia paid great attention to her image, almost to the point of pursuing perfection. She never wore the same clothes every day, always put on makeup when she went out, sprayed Marc Jacobs' daisy-scented perfume, and smiled as if she had practiced it countless times in front of the mirror. Her efforts were effective, and even though she had disappeared for so long, that perfect smile had not faded in my heart.

"It wasn't a very windy night. When she ended her life, she had a whole closet full of beautiful clothes but didn't choose any. Instead, she wore a bulky down jacket. What was wrong with that?"

Max raised his eyebrows. "It's just a coat."

"No makeup."

"It can't be seen from the surveillance."

"I can see. Her hair is simply tied back in a ponytail."

"Wow, you look very carefully."

"Besides, the suicide method doesn't make sense. Visibility is low on rainy nights, making search and rescue difficult. By the time the rescue boats were dispatched the next day, the person would have been carried downstream by the turbulent river. There would be no way to have a proper funeral, and that's what happened."

Even if it was discovered, it would have been too rotten to be buried. I hesitated.

"That makes sense." Max smiled, "The premise is that a person who intends to commit suicide really cares about whether his funeral is dignified."

I ignored his sarcasm and said, "I have studied a lot of information about the psychology of suicide. After weighing the pros and cons, jumping off a bridge is definitely not a good choice. From a height of dozens of meters, falling on the water is no different from falling on the ground. The impact force at the moment of falling into the water is astonishingly great. Organs will be shattered, bones will pierce through the inside of the skin, and the pain before death is beyond imagination."

"As far as I know, there are many people who commit suicide in this way."

"Because this kind of death is very shocking. A considerable proportion of suicides are those who harbor resentment or rebellion, and die to prove something. But it's hard to believe that she would think so since she didn't even leave a suicide note. Besides," I paused deliberately, "wasn't there an obvious and easier way for her to choose?"

"Just say whatever you want to say."

"Five years ago, the company was not doing well. You were troubled by anxiety for a while, right?"

"Well, there was a period of time."

"You secretly used your connections to get a lot of sleeping pills. There are dozens of them in the drawer of your office. I know where they are stored, and so does Olivia. It's not difficult to take them away secretly. At least, it's much easier than making up your mind and falling to pieces."

Max stared into my eyes, and I stared into his. After a moment, he spat out the cigarette but.t with teeth marks on it, put it into the ashtray and crushed it out. It was a way of crushing it that contained hidden violence. There was no sign of force, just using the remaining part of the cigarette to draw circles back and forth. After rotating it five or six times almost stubbornly, the cigarette finally died.

"The thirteenth this week. Too much," he sighed.

"If you care, wouldn't it be better to quit?"

"I can't help it. There are always social occasions, money shortages, and times when I feel depressed." Max pushed the ashtray out of his sight and looked up again. "I think you know that you are not the only one who is still upset about Olivia's death."

I didn't respond. The decisive tone made me feel a little uncomfortable.

"Of course, it's not your fault. Everyone thinks her death is suspicious and too sudden. But I understand the reason. After all, I know a lot of unknown things about her... Her past life is very complicated, her family background is complicated, and her experiences are also complicated. Did you know that she took a year off from high school due to psychological problems?"

"Psychological problems, dropping out of school?" I was quite surprised.

"She had this problem since she was a child. Her family was considered wealthy, but it wasn't always like this. Her father's business had its ups and downs, and he even served as a guarantor for unreliable friends. He went bankrupt halfway through, and the whole family had to hide from the debt. Although it only lasted for a short year, it formed a knot in her heart that she could never let go of."

I remained silent.

"She never mentioned this to anyone except me. But I was so slow to realize the seriousness of the problem that I didn't realize it. By the time I wanted to do anything to save it, it was too late."

Max held his face with both hands, and slowly closed his fingers until his face was completely covered. His shoulders moved his entire body, trembling slightly, like a mountaineer's hut hit by a blizzard.
 
Superb acting, I couldn't help but think.

"It is a profound misery not to be able to forgive yourself. It is true for you and for me," he choked, "and there is nothing more painful than this."

A strong urge surged inside my chest, and I wanted to grab the collar of his straight shirt without any concealment and question why he lied.

However, I tried my best to hold it back.

It's too early, too early.

There was a knock on the door. The secretary brought a set of tea sets with blue and white patterns, and the room was filled with the aroma of new tea. I noticed that her eyes were quite strange, and when I looked out of the corner of my eye, Max's face was as pale as death.

I guess mine is similar.

The door closed quietly, leaving only two silent people in the room. I spoke first, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned her. I'm afraid she's been working too much overtime, and her whole mental state is not right."

"It's okay. I get stuck in the past sometimes. What's the phrase? The past is like smoke."

It's almost time to go. Since someone is determined to hide the truth, there is no point in talking any further. The door is locked. We are having a conversation that seems to be communication, but in fact it is just going around in circles outside the door.

"The rain has stopped, so I'll go back first."

I hadn't even touched the tea yet. I picked up the cup and was about to drink it all, but Max held my wrist.

"Don't drink anything so weak, wait a minute."

He left the office and returned five minutes later with an opened bottle of wine in his hand.

"Drinking now?" I glanced at my watch and the hands were approaching twelve o'clock, noon.

"I have some good news to announce. You will surely want to have a drink after hearing it." He pulled out the vacuum cork with a pop. "This was the wine we had for the reception last night, for the government officials. Unfortunately, no one drank it during the banquet. Everyone was just busy talking and competing with each other to fill their stomachs with liquor. In the end, there was a whole bottle left - what a pity, it's a real Bordeaux of a good vintage. I couldn't bear to throw it away, so I vacuumed it and brought it back. Now it looks like it was prepared for celebrating with you."

As soon as the wine entered the glass, the fruity aroma immediately spread. It must have been brewed in a year with abundant rainfall.

"Congratulations." Max raised his glass solemnly.

"What's there to be congratulated about now?" I was puzzled. He didn't answer and drank it all.

In desperation, I followed his example and took a deep sip.

The cold liquid flows from the tip of my tongue to my stomach. The taste is indeed extraordinary, and even an outsider like me can appreciate it. The taste is distinct, with different sour, sweet, bitter and astringent tastes when it enters the mouth, contacts the taste buds on the tip of the tongue, and swallows, just like a ruby   that changes color and depth depending on the angle of light.

"Guess the price?"

I shook my head. "I know nothing about wine tasting."

He refilled his glass. "Five figures."

I coughed violently and almost choked.

Max smiled and stood up to pour me some wine. I quickly covered the rim of the glass with the back of my hand, "You mentioned that there was good news?"

"That's right. I don't know if you remember that you had a stake in this company when it was first established."

"It seems to be the case."

"The company has gone through a lot to get to where it is today, including multiple rounds of investment. Your equity has been somewhat diluted after the capital injection, but you still retain a certain proportion."

At this point, he paused deliberately, "To be precise, there is still 0.83 percent left."

"Thanks for reminding me. I would have forgotten it if you hadn't told me."

"It sounds like a small number, but I have an insider information. I will reveal it to you, but don't tell anyone. The subsidiary held by the company will be listed on the Hong Kong stock market next month. If you are willing to sell your shares, other shareholders, including me, are willing to take over at a reasonable price - about 13 million yuan."

I stared at him in disbelief, wondering if he was kidding, but there was nothing artificial in his expression.

"Are you serious?"

"If the securities manager I hired at a high price is not joking, this price is reasonable." He replied calmly.

For a moment, I even forgot to breathe. I had become a multi-millionaire without realizing it.

"The digits in the amount don't seem right..." I murmured.

"Didn't we learn Marxism in college? If someone wants to buy a commodity but no one wants to sell it, the price will rise sharply. And vice versa." Max shook the contents of the glass and admired the wine stains on the glass. "Take this bottle of red wine as an example. There are enough rich people in the world who want to drink famous wine, but there are only a few famous wineries, and the annual output is fixed. So it is bound to be hyped up to a corresponding outrageous price. This is the principle of the market. Even if it goes against rational cognition, we have to agree with their choice."

"13 million, 13 million..." I chewed on the number over and over again, trying to calm my blood vessels. The wealth represented by the number, if converted into physical objects, is not as surprising as it sounds at first glance - it is only enough to buy a house in Beijing, Shanghai or Guangzhou. But if converted into my salary, it is a sum that I can't save in several lifetimes.

I felt myself being held captive by a sense of illusion, floating in mid-air.

Max observed the changes in my expression, "I understand your state of mind. Two years ago, I was in the same situation. I was in a meeting when I suddenly received a call from my agent. They told me that the B round of investment was finalized. In total, I have a seven-digit asset. Seven figures! But compared to excitement, I feel more of a sense of unreality. My life experience so far tells me that it can't be that smooth. It must be a dream, and it will disappear naturally when I wake up and open my eyes. It took a month for me to get used to it as a part of myself."

He patted my shoulder and said, "Your life will be completely different from now on."

I tried to mobilize my imagination, but no picture of a better future came to mind.

"There's plenty of time. You can take your time to appreciate it." Max patted my shoulder. "Stay for lunch. It's rare to have good wine. I know an authentic French restaurant nearby. The foie gras is tender and the bread is crispy. If you want, we can talk about the equity placement while we eat."
 
His words reminded me that I had already made plans for the afternoon. If it were a normal day, I would not refuse an invitation to financial freedom. But now I couldn't. There was someone I had to meet, and nothing could stop me.

"Unfortunately, I have to return to Chengdu as soon as possible." I lied.

"Can't even spare time for a meal?"

"Some other day, for sure."

Max smiled bitterly, "Although I know that our relationship can never go back to the way it was before, I never thought it would get so bad."

"Don't get me wrong, I have no qualms about having dinner together. I'd rather be happy to do so." I explained, "I really have to catch a flight back home and have work to do."

Max shook his head and walked closer to the window, as if he suddenly became interested in the street scene.

Outside the window, the sky was as dark as dusk, with no sign of birds. The trees along the road were torn by the wind, their branches and leaves falling in the same direction. There was no sound of wind, only raindrops hitting the glass frantically.

"I've wanted to contact you so many times. I thought, at least we could chat about trivial matters. But I gave up in the end," he said. "I stopped when I dialed the number. I always stopped at that moment. I couldn't think of what to say, and I couldn't say anything. In the blink of an eye, five years have passed, and our relationship has deteriorated to this point. I'm really sorry."

"Never mind, if this was wrong, I need to apologize too."

Dial the number and cannot proceed to the next step. I have done the same thing more than once.

"No, you don't understand."

But this is what I really think. Over the past five years, whenever I think of my former friends, a deep sense of helplessness comes over me.

"I'm talking about something else." Max put down his glass, his face showing sadness. "I'm apologizing for this bottle of wine. It's not expensive, just over a thousand yuan. It's not leftover from a banquet, it's a stock of wine I just opened. But it's indeed Bordeaux."

For both of us, does a lie about face have any meaning? I was very confused, and a layer of mist-like fascia blocked my thinking. There was a "bang" sound of breaking under my feet, and I lowered my head and found that it was a broken wine glass.

I bent over to pick it up, but remained bent over and fell to the ground.

Lying on the marble floor, I watched as the glass shards pierced my wrist, and the cuff gradually turned red. I couldn't tell whether it was blood or wine. There was no pain, not at all. My arm was like an artificial organ that had just been transplanted, without any feeling at all.

Max squatted down beside me, not showing any sign of panic at all.

"Recently, the company's operations have had some minor problems. My insomnia has relapsed. I had no choice but to seek help from a familiar doctor. He prescribed medicine and reminded me that it was not the mild sleeping pills that are available on the market. The medicine is very potent, so I must take it with caution and not take more than one-third of a tablet at a time."

He paused for a moment, as if observing my reaction.

"I think I accidentally put some powder in the wine just now."

"Don't be ridiculous..." I tried to grab his collar, but I could only watch my arm trace a half circle in the air. After landing, more glass fragments pierced my body.

Max stared into my eyes, his face was empty, like an empty house that had been abandoned for years, without any trace of what could be called human touch.

"She called you last night, didn't she? That's why you came to see me."

I wanted to speak and ask him how he knew, but I couldn't find the tongue. Soon, I couldn't even sense whether there was such an organ.

The door creaked against the ground, followed by footsteps. There were more than one person's footsteps, chaotic and disorderly. I vaguely realized that an arm was stretched under my armpit, and my body was lifted up into the air.

The location was moving, and I heard the sound of a car engine starting, maybe we were outside. It was still raining, and the rustling sound of the rain was like white noise after all the radio programs were off the air at midnight. Water droplets splashed on my face from time to time.

Someone was humming in the rain. The tune was very familiar, as if it came from deep in memory, a song from more than ten years ago.

Bob Dylan?

Undoubtedly, it's Bob Dylan.

At that time, I was a freshman in college and heard his "Like a Rolling Stone" for the first time.

Like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, I clung to the fragments of the melody and struggled, trying to get my head above the water to breathe. But the undercurrent entangled my feet, and finally, everything sank into the abyss of unconsciousness.