Chapter 1

When I was nineteen, I witnessed a murder. The killer spotted me and tried to silence me for good.

On the brink of death, I said something. Those words saved my life.

Years later, the killer was caught. Reporters came hunting for me like sharks scenting blood. Only then did I realize...

The words that had saved me all those years ago had been a prophecy.

1

After his arrest, the serial killer Chen Ling remained remarkably calm. He told the police about every crime he “could remember.” In other words, there were quite a few he had forgotten.

To call him heartless or inhuman hardly began to describe what he had done.

By his own account, whenever the time and place were “right” and the urge to kill came over him, he acted on it. There had been just one exception.

On Lunar New Year’s Eve in 1998, he had spared a girl of nineteen. Eighteen years had passed; she was now approaching middle age.

At that point in his confession, Chen Ling apparently realized that one “twinge of conscience” among dozens of frenzied killings would not save him from execution. He refused to elaborate, brushing it aside with remarks like “It was New Year’s” and “I suddenly didn’t feel like killing.”

After he was executed, rumors of that single “twinge of conscience” spread everywhere. Speculation centered on a local art teacher named Xia Zhi.

The media descended in droves.

Obviously, a depraved killer like Chen Ling would never have spared someone who could expose him simply because “it was New Year’s” or he “suddenly didn’t feel like killing.”

There had to be more to it.

2

My name is Xia Zhi. I am an obscure painter employed at a local art academy. I teach, paint, and occasionally hold a solo exhibition.

I am a solitary person, emotionally fragile and sensitive. Mental illness has tormented me for years. Above all, I dread attention.

Then the serial killer Chen Ling made me famous.

Only the two of us knew why he had really spared me.

On that terrifying Lunar New Year’s Eve in 1998, with his hands clamped around my throat, I had forced out a single sentence.

He let go. I escaped death by a hair.

3

“Please, just tell me what really happened that night.”

The most relentless of the reporters pursuing me was a man named Lu Zeming.

“It was a terrible experience. I don’t want to relive it.”

He had been following me for over a month. I had turned him down more times than I could count. He was the sort of tabloid reporter who never gave up until he got what he wanted; securing this interview seemed to have become his purpose in life.

“Ms. Xia, tell me the answer and I’ll do anything you ask!”

His persistence did move me. But it wasn’t that I was unwilling to talk. I was afraid to bring up what had happened...

I feared that once I started revisiting the past, everything would spiral out of control.

4

Then one day, my assistant called.

“A reporter named Lu came to your exhibition today...”

I listened without a word, then smiled faintly.

So that was it... That was it.

5

Knock, knock, knock.

Just then, Lu Zeming knocked on my studio door.

The moment he stepped inside, before he could speak, I welcomed him.

“I’ve decided to give you the interview.”

He stared at me, startled and momentarily at a loss.

I took a deep breath and spoke plainly.

“That Lunar New Year’s Eve, I came within a hair of dying. When Chen Ling was strangling me, I said something—a prophecy. After that, he let me go.”

“I didn’t think of it as a prophecy then. It took eighteen years for me to realize... That was when it came true.” The words were difficult to get out.

“I’ll start at the beginning and take it slowly.” I sighed and poured two glasses of water. “Have some water.”

He was cautious, waiting until I had drunk before taking a sip himself.

The interview officially began. Lu Zeming summarized Chen Ling’s case.

“Chen Ling was a serial killer responsible for at least ten murders over more than a decade. All his victims were women. The earliest known case dates back to the eighties. He chose his victims indiscriminately.

“The details of his confession couldn’t be released after his arrest. Only after his execution did the rumors about his ‘twinge of conscience’ emerge. And they concerned you.”

“Yes.”

“He said he spared you because ‘it was New Year’s’ and he ‘suddenly didn’t feel like killing.’ That clearly doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?”

“We looked into his childhood. His father died young, and he was raised by his mother.

“Then they were both kidnapped. Her family was too poor to pay the ransom, so she was killed. He left home and started working odd jobs while he was still a child. Psychopathic killers often have tragic histories like that.”

I thought for a moment. “That... I think he told me about it too.”

“He told you?” Lu Zeming pressed. “Did he see you as one of his own? Or did you already know each other?”

“No, we didn’t know each other, and I wasn’t one of his people. He killed indiscriminately. We just happened to cross paths.” I stressed it again. “I wasn’t his accomplice. I’ve never done anything wrong.”

I brought him back to the point. “What are you trying to prove by telling me about his childhood?”

“That he had no family. Without a family, New Year’s means nothing. For Chinese people, the holiday is deeply bound up with family. Seeing everyone else reunited might have made him even angrier, even more extreme. So ‘it was New Year’s’ sounds too normal. That’s what makes it suspicious.”

I nodded. “I see. ‘Without a family, New Year’s means nothing.’ I know that feeling too. I’m an orphan. I was abandoned at birth. I have no family either.”

Lu Zeming hastily apologized. A heavy silence settled between us.

He glanced around and changed the subject. “I saw your exhibition.”

“You don’t have to be polite. I may be oversensitive, but I know my own limitations. I’m not especially talented. My first painting was my best—I peaked at my debut.”

“But I really liked it. Your work made me think of my mother...” he said. “That’s why I came to you. It wasn’t just about Chen Ling. There’s something personal too.”

“Was it Goddess?”

“You knew?”

“Goddess was my first painting, and my best. Only intense emotion allows me to paint well, and Goddess is the only work I ever completed in that state. Everything since has been mediocre.

“It caused quite a stir in the art world at the time. A lot of people wanted to buy it. They said it made them feel an overwhelming love.”

Lu Zeming frowned. “Love?”

“Yes. The woman reaches out beyond the frame, gazing up at you with sorrow and tenderness, her hand extended in longing.

“People say she seems both sensual and pure. She makes them want to protect her. The perfect lover. But you seem to feel differently.”

“No. It isn’t romantic love. It’s the love of a mother,” Lu Zeming said firmly. “She isn’t a lover; she’s a mother. She isn’t looking up with passion; she’s looking down with affection. Her hand isn’t reaching upward. It’s reaching down. She doesn’t want protection. She wants to protect someone.”

My heart began to pound, faster and faster. I kept questioning him.

“Then your impression is the exact opposite of everyone else’s. They see the woman beneath them, while you place her above you. Why do you see it so differently?”

“I can’t think of the woman in that painting as a lover,” he said quietly. “Her face looks too much like my mother’s. I lost her many years ago. It’s quite possible... that you painted her.”

“Your mother? That’s hard to believe... Could there really be such a coincidence?”

He hesitated. “I’m not completely sure... I’d like to know where the model is. And whether I could buy the painting.”

“Then tell me your story first.”

“...”

“A deal has to be fair. You want to hear about Chen Ling from me. In return, I want to hear about your mother.”

Lu Zeming composed himself. “Is that why you agreed to the interview?”

“Not entirely.”

“You knew I went to your exhibition today?”

“I only just found out. My assistant called when I came to the studio this evening and mentioned you. You said the woman resembled your mother and asked to buy the painting. You’re the first person to call Goddess a mother.”

“I really do want to buy it,” he said quickly.

I stood firm.

“Then... start telling me your story.”