127. Reverse Thinking

Marco’s house is an older two-story building located on the outskirts of downtown Reno, far from the river boardwalk.

Shortly after Dean knocked on the door, Marco opened it wearing pajamas. Heavy, dark bags hung beneath his eyes, his skin was slack, and his hair was unkempt, clearly showing he had slept poorly last night.

"Did you finish talking with Jero? Any discoveries?"

"Yeah. Jero speaks very highly of Lubin, rather than running him down as a good-for-nothing like you do." Dean crossed the foyer, walked over to the sofa in the living room, and dropped into it, looking around.

The house was far more luxuriously decorated than the apartment, bearing a rather grand and opulent air. The sofa and tables were made of expensive mahogany, and ceramic vases were displayed from the entryway all the way into the living room. Along the gold- and silver-foil wallpaper and the side wall of the staircase leading to the second floor hung portrait paintings of figures who, judging by their facial features and flaxen hair, likely shared the bloodline of the Van Helsing family—perhaps their ancestors.

Even the petal-like lamp shades hanging from the ceiling were so exquisitely crafted that they looked like antique works of art.

"And now I can confirm that Lubin’s disappearance is related to his final autobiography, *Lubin Van Helsing*."

"That’s just a piece of garbage," the old man shook his head, sitting on the sofa opposite him with furrowed brows. "Why are you always hung up on that?"

"Intuition..." Dean tapped his temple, his eyes gleaming brightly. "It might sound a bit unbelievable, but my investigations rely mainly on intuition. It’s my strongest weapon."

"Besides, I don't want to beat around the bush with you anymore. I'll lay it out right here: every time I mention that book, you change the subject. If you haven't read it, how could you have this attitude?"

"You definitely kept a copy. Give it to me," Dean stared into his old employer's eyes, speaking in an unquestionable tone. "Otherwise, I'll drop Lubin's commission right now and head back to Las Vegas. I won't even take the reward."

The threat hung in the air.

The atmosphere in the hall grew still, the dim yellow light seemingly frozen in place as if captured by a camera.

A look of astonishment crossed Marco's aged face, the wrinkles on it writhing like dormant sandworms coming to life.

He struggled with his expression.

Yet he remained silent.

Dean stood up.

"Then farewell, Marco. Thank you for your hospitality over the past two days. Next time you come to Las Vegas, I'll show you around."

Amidst hurried footsteps, Dean silently counted as he strode toward the door, pressed his right hand onto the doorknob, and twisted.

"I'll get you a copy," a defeated voice came from behind.

A slight curve formed at the corner of Dean's mouth.

Then, as he wished, he obtained the book. Sitting on the sofa, he began to read by the light of the living room lamp.

It was very crude, without a cover, formed simply by binding dense drafts together. There were just over a hundred pages in total, and the condition was very new, as if it had hardly been read.

"More than half a year ago, taking advantage of the time Lubin went out to a bar for a drink at night, I secretly entered his apartment, took the manuscript, and had it copied." The old man held a cup of steaming black tea, as if hoping to use it to warm his chilled heart, but his back was hunched and his demeanor was utterly helpless, making him look several years older in an instant. "I was also worried he would have another impulse and burn the book."

"Why sneak around caring about your son instead of being upright about it? As a father, don't always keep your care hidden in your heart."

Dean cast a glance over the pages. The opening of the first page clarified the protagonist's identity.

*"My name is Lubin Van Helsing, the last bloodline of an ancient family that immigrated from America to the Netherlands... a third-rate writer who has failed the honor of his ancestors and accomplished nothing."*

Amidst self-deprecation, Lubin began to recount his upbringing. Dean had already heard this once from both Jero and Marco, so he skipped the repetition.

However, the book contained many more details, such as Lubin's complaints about his old man Marco valuing work and neglecting him.

*"An autocratic tyrant who only knows how to give orders and never listens..."*

*"A macho Hitler the Second..."*

*"The nut-cracking maniac of a pet clinic..."* Dean's mouth twitched, and Marco's expression beside him grew awkward as well.

In addition, the book was filled with adolescent Lubin's various fantasies about his dream goddess—large blue eyes, a delicate and upright nose, cherry lips, a curvaceous figure, fond of wearing an alluring red dress. Her most distinct feature was a beauty mark at the corner of her lips.

"Why does Lubin's dream goddess seem a bit familiar?"

"That's right. She is identical to my wife, his mother Mary," Marco slammed the table, speaking in a muffled, resentful tone. "This morally corrupt little punk, imagining things in his mind is one thing, but he actually dared to write his shameful fantasies openly in the book. It completely violates ethics."

"This behavior brings shame upon the entire family!"

"And it doesn't end there..." Marco took a deep breath, his face turning red again as he growled, "There are even more absurd plots further down!"

Dean continued reading.

Interspersed throughout the process of Lubin growing into a down-and-out writer were numerous complaints about his own bad luck and unrecognized talent.

The writing was ornate, the descriptions delicate and vivid, making the characters' appearances and clothing seem as if they were right before one's eyes.

As a reader, wouldn't Dean want to read something gratifying? Yet this Lubin favored self-pity and self-deprecation.

He was a stereotypical pretentious literary youth—he deserved to be a flop!

...

Skipping these complaints, Dean flipped all the way to the final section.

The night of his life's turning point.

Lubin, who had wasted thirty-six years of his life, drunkenly played the hero saving a damsel in distress on the Virginia Street Bridge, and then they poured their hearts out to one another.

The name of the rescued woman was also Mary, and both her name and appearance were very similar to Lubin's mother.

As for the reason she sought to end her life, it was precisely because her ex-husband had an affair. Unable to bear it, she had come to Reno for a no-fault divorce.

After the divorce was successfully finalized, the man had walked away dashingly.

Yet she felt the affection she had given in the past was worthless, and in a moment of impulse, she sought a shortcut to death.

The woman in red described her ex-husband as follows: six feet three inches tall, a slender build, fond of wearing jeans, casual shoes, and a large black coat. Short flaxen hair streaked with silver was parted using hair gel; he had a high bridge of the nose, prominent cheekbones, deep wrinkles on his face, and a rigid, serious appearance.

Moreover, he had a foul temper, was stubborn and inflexible, possessed a strong sense of chauvinism, and even ran a pet clinic.

Reading this, Dean raised his head and glanced at the old man opposite him, his pupils contracting slightly.

Wasn't this damn ex-husband Marco?

"That scoundrel, that rebellious son!" Filled with grief and indignation, the old man abruptly stood up from the sofa. "I regarded Mary as my only true love. Even though she passed away long ago, I have never remarried."

"Yet my dear son fabricated lies in a book, slandering my character, claiming I had an affair and broke Mary's heart! Portraying me as a heartless man."

"What kind of son would so insult his father?"

The old man trembled all over with rage, his beard and gray hair standing on end.

Finally, Dean understood why Marco's expression had turned so ugly whenever the book was mentioned—this was an outright family scandal!

In the book, Lubin, acting as the protagonist, had snatched Mary away from his father, that philanderer.

What was this supposed to be?

A son stealing his father's lover?

How shocking!

Was this truly the uninhibited nature of a writer, a mental disorder, or the degradation of human nature?

"That's right, Lubin went too far," Dean placated the old man, following his lead. "But for now, calm your anger. Finding people is what matters most."

Dean turned to the next page. Down-and-out Lubin and the suicidal Mary leaned close together, resting their shoulders against one another.

Then he flipped to the end of the page.

The fledgling romance stopped abruptly right there.

Dean's face sank, his expression frantic. "Where's the second half?"

"Before I had a chance to copy the other book, he threw all the books into the river to feed the fish." Marco pressed his liver, his mouth opening and closing like a catfish as he took continuous deep breaths.

"Shit!"

Dean couldn't help muttering a curse under his breath.

"Are you messing with me? With only half a book, how am I supposed to find someone?"

"Dean, you've made me experience the pain of being insulted by my son all over again," Marco's face turned livid. "Now tell me quickly, what clues did you actually discover from this half of the book?"

...

Clues...

Dean rubbed his throbbing temples, pondering for a moment as the five clues he had gathered over the past two days flashed through his mind, fusing them together—

Lubin Van Helsing was an impoverished writer living off the relief of his father Marco. He was deeply enamored with the cultural history of his hometown Reno—the "Divorce Capital of the World"—and constantly fantasized about finding a girlfriend as outstanding as his mother Mary.

Eventually, one day, Lubin wrote an autobiography set against the history of Reno, with the female protagonist in the autobiography modeled after Mary.

...

Based on these clues, Dean formed a hypothesis.

"Before Lubin went missing, did he encounter this suicidal woman in red in reality, and then write her into the book?"

"Later, did he leave Reno with that woman?"

"If we find the woman, we can follow the vine to find him!"

After all, many plots in a writer's work were adapted from their own personal experiences.

Upon hearing this, however, Marco shook his head decisively.

"That punk can't keep anything to himself. If he had encountered such an opportunity to play the hero and save a beauty, and succeeded at that, he definitely wouldn't have been able to resist telling Jero and showing off to me."

"He would have been grinning from ear to ear for quite a long time."

"Yet his mood has been relatively low for many years now."

"If there really were a woman in reality who looked so much like Mary, I certainly would have seen her, but I haven't."

...

Both his father Marco and his close friend Jero had successively denied the existence of the female protagonist in the book.

It seemed Lubin Van Helsing hadn't actually rescued the woman in red in reality before writing her into the story.

...

"Out of ideas, aren't you? My friend, stop obsessing over this damn book," Marco said with an I-told-you-so expression, his withered hands closing the pages. "Everything in the book is fake, just absurd and ridiculous fantasies that could never become reality. You need to change your direction of investigation!"

"Wait, fantasies can't become reality?" Dean suddenly stared straight into Marco's eyes, violently clenching his fists.

"No, you're wrong. Book plots can become reality."

This was a medium-difficulty event involving supernatural factors, so anything was possible.

Dean re-consolidated the previous clues and re-examined them, his brain operating at high gear as he opened his mind to reverse thinking:

It wasn't that Lubin had written his personal experiences into the book.

Rather, Lubin had written it first, and then the plot within the book had come true.

Fantasy had stepped into reality!

Mary, the woman in red, had run out of the book, prepared to jump off the Virginia Street Bridge, and after Lubin rescued her, the two of them had vanished together!

As for Lubin's experiences after his disappearance, they were undoubtedly recorded in the missing second half of the book!

...

As this thought arose,

Dean felt as though he were drinking a refreshing, thirst-quenching gulp of cold water in the scorching midsummer, and he let out a long breath.

The investigation progress in his system also jumped abruptly, rising from forty percent to forty-five percent.

Yet it was a bit lower than he expected.

Was it because there was no concrete evidence?

...

Marco looked at the young detective, whose expression shifted between foolish grins and knitted brows, and combined it with his inexplicable obsession with a worthless book. A strong sense of mistrust flashed in the old man's eyes.

"Didn't Tribeca end up recommending a lunatic to me, did she?"

...

"But it still needs to be verified." Ignoring the old man's bizarre gaze, Dean muttered to himself, "I need to consult someone experienced. Does the phenomenon of book plots coming true exist in folklore?"