Holden Ford

Page 1 of 3

Monday morning.

The sky hung heavy and gray, thick rain clouds like cotton batting enveloping Las Vegas, heralding a dreadful storm.

Dean called out to Last, telling him to bring the Nikon F3, and together they headed to the baseball field. Normally, at this hour, the twenty-odd members of the school baseball team would be training under Bob and Coach Tom’s direction, the sidelines crowded with starry-eyed girls. But today, the field was deserted.

“Hey, Last, who was that girl just now? She looks great,” Dean asked.

“Britney. Last time at Bob’s birthday party, I used her as an example, and she got really mad, demanded to know why.”

“No, I think she likes you,” Dean replied earnestly. “She’s deliberately trying to leave a deep impression on you.”

“Really?” Last said, his heart stirred.

“Yeah, you should work hard, get yourself a girlfriend soon. Now, take a photo of me, make it look cool.”

Dean grinned, flashing his white teeth and radiant smile, leaned against the net, and made an OK gesture. The “shadow” stood right beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

He was in high spirits—the night before, he’d begun practicing the Extreme Tempering Method. Exhausted his mental strength and slept deeply, the quality of his rest superb. Although his proficiency with the Shadow of the Past remained at zero, Dean was confident that persistence would pay off.

...

Last took several photos of Dean, but through the camera, he detected nothing unusual about the “shadow” drifting at Dean’s side.

Dean breathed a sigh of relief, planning to check the negatives when they were developed.

...

After the third class that morning, the “judgment” Dean had long awaited arrived.

Principal Ulysses, heavy-eyed as if he hadn’t slept in days, found him. Last, who had just been questioned, followed behind, worry flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Dean.

“Dean, don’t be nervous when you get to the office. This is routine questioning. Just answer honestly and you’ll be fine.”

Ulysses offered a word of comfort, escorted him to the door, and Dean drew a deep breath, mentally reviewing his plan.

He stepped inside.

Waiting in the office was a tall man, hair slicked back impeccably, with a youthful face, about thirty, similar in height to Dean—around 1.75 meters—and handsome.

He radiated an air of refinement, gentleness, and trustworthiness, not a trace of a cop’s sternness or detachment.

Yet Dean’s heart skipped—ordinary cops wouldn’t wear a deep blue suit, white shirt, and tie, and a sparkling quartz watch on their wrist.

“Dean? I’m FBI Agent Holden Ford.”

The man flashed his badge, gestured for him to sit, and scanned Dean from head to toe.

“Relax, we’re just having a casual chat. I had a pleasant conversation with your classmates earlier.”

His voice was soothing, calming.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“A glass of water is fine.” Dean cupped the glass in both hands, turned his head slightly to avoid the agent’s scrutinizing gaze. “You—you’re here about Bob?”

“You’ve heard?” Holden pulled up a chair and sat beside him, not too close nor too far, his gaze sincere.

“I didn’t know at first, but everyone was talking about it this morning at school, so…”

“How did you feel after hearing?”

“Huh?” Dean lowered his head, feigning confusion. “It sounded like a joke. Bob’s family is rich, he’s popular—how could he just be gone?”

“Mr. Holden, how did he die, exactly?” Dean sipped his water, looked up, timid curiosity in his expression. “Everyone says the circumstances were strange.”

Holden shook his head and smiled, meeting Dean’s eyes, and spoke directly:

“Bob died quickly—shot in the head. The killer left two letters beside his body…”

Hm?

Dean felt something was off. This was their first meeting—why was the FBI revealing such details to a high school student? Was this standard procedure? Wasn’t he worried about traumatizing Dean?

But Dean kept up his performance, his face pale, lips trembling as if frightened.

Holden shifted the topic. “Dean, I heard your home is far from school.”

“I ride my bike for over an hour every day.”

“Isn’t it tiring?”

“I’m used to it.”

“How many people in your family?”

“Just an uncle. He works up north in Nevada, so most of the time I’m home alone.”

Page 2 of 3

Dean answered honestly.

“Your uncle—what does he do?”

“Bodyguard.”

A strange light flashed in Holden’s eyes. He moved to the desk, perched on it, towering over Dean.

Dean sensed he’d said something wrong.

“Where were you the day before yesterday?” Holden asked.

Dean sharpened his focus.

“Saturday? Last and I went to South Barracadesco during the day.”

“They let you into bars?”

“We found a way to sneak in, had a few drinks. Around four or five, I went home and crashed. Please keep it secret, FBI sir,” Dean pleaded.

“Anyone who can testify for you?”

Dean pretended to think, thankful he’d previously reinforced his neighbors’ impression. “My neighbors Jacob and Tanya saw me then.”

Holden nodded.

“I heard from several people—last Tuesday you and Bob had a conflict in the cafeteria, you hurt him?”

The conversation suddenly took a sharper turn.

Dean was a bit unsettled, nodded in silence.

“Why, specifically?”

Dean’s hands visibly clenched into fists, as if struggling with intense emotions, finally sighed.

“He used to hit me, insult me.”

“Oh? Can you give details?”

“I never did anything wrong, but because I have yellow skin, racists always target me, cause trouble…” Dean covered his face, voice shaking.

Holden adjusted his tie, stood, circled the chair, glancing at Dean’s palms.

“He bullied you regularly, and you never fought back. Until last Tuesday, you couldn’t take it anymore and beat Bob bloody.”

“I had no choice.”

“I’m not saying you were wrong—you did the right thing…” Holden’s eyes showed approval. “Endless tolerance earns no respect. Only with your fists can you escape hardship.”

Dean was surprised—the FBI agent seemed reasonable, not lecturing him with rigid, insincere morals.

“But Bob wasn’t just anyone. After you beat him, he wouldn’t let it go—did he threaten you?”

Holden stared into Dean’s eyes. Dean couldn’t understand his intent and said nothing.

“Dean, according to the LVPD, the night you and Bob fought, your house was vandalized by a group.”

“What are you implying? Are these two things related?” Dean looked puzzled.

“There are no coincidences like that. You’re smart—you should have guessed by now. It was Bob’s revenge!”

“Really? LVPD never gave me a clear answer, nor caught the vandals. Bob liked to bully, but not to that extent, right?” Dean shook his head.

“But you can’t deny that night scared you, right?” Holden pressed.

Dean silently agreed.

“You felt fear. Fear leads people astray, stirs anger, breeds hatred, and brings suffering.”

“You’d seek comfort and protection from someone trustworthy—someone strong. Only one fits: your uncle Paquet!”

“You told him everything about your conflict with Bob, didn’t you?”

Dean suddenly squeezed his thigh, denying it.

“FBI sir, I don’t get your meaning. I never told Paquet—he’s always busy, I don’t want him to worry.”

“That’s fine… Your nephew’s face is bruised, the house a mess.” Holden’s tone was calm, carrying a hint of expectation and guidance. “As a bodyguard, your uncle’s observant—it’s no surprise if he noticed something.”

“Why do you keep mentioning my uncle? Isn’t today about Bob?” Dean couldn’t help slapping the table, raising his head defensively.

“Relax, Dean. I’ll satisfy your curiosity. Not strictly by the book, but I think you’re mature enough to know more.”

Holden praised him generously.

“The killer moved freely in Bob’s villa, even taking the surveillance footage. That shows he knows the systems well and has nerves of steel. In this era, that means either a repeat offender, a security employee, cop, or—bodyguard.”

Dean quietly looked over.

Holden met his gaze and continued.

“He timed it perfectly—Bob’s house normally had bodyguards, but on his birthday, Bob sent them away so classmates could enjoy themselves. The killer left the scene spotless—both point to meticulous planning.”

“Further, examination showed the killer had unusually strong physical power, robust build, skilled in firearms and combat, trained militarily—all basic traits of a bodyguard.”

A flash of surprise crossed Dean’s eyes; he stood, face flushed. The FBI was tracing the murder back to his uncle.

To protect his only family, his uncle Paquet had stealthily killed the threatening rich kid.

Page 3 of 3

It sounded plausible.

But it was wrong from the start.

“Mr. Holden, you suspect my uncle hurt Bob? That’s absurd! He left Las Vegas days ago.”

“But he didn’t go far—still in the same state, easy to fly back and forth.” Holden tapped the table with his finger, pupils narrowing. “The crime scene was wiped clean of fingerprints, but besides Bob’s DNA, we found a second person’s blood. With a sample, a few comparisons will confirm the identity.”

Dean feigned confusion.

“Wait, what do you mean by blood DNA?”

Holden pressed further.

“Didn’t you learn in biology? Doesn’t matter—just know this: if you discover your uncle hurt Bob and there’s evidence, it’s best he confesses. That way, the punishment might be lighter—twenty years and you could reunite.”

“If we find it ourselves, it’s likely death penalty.”

“You understand? Nevada’s method is the latest lethal injection—like an IV, injected with a fatal dose. Then you’ll never see your uncle, your only family, again.”

“That’s terrifying.” Holden sighed. “He needn’t die—if you just speak up.”

Dean froze, cheeks flushed with anger, eyes blazing.

“Stop! What death penalty? You’re slandering my uncle, threatening me—I’m calling to complain!”

Holden was taken aback, for the first time losing his composure. This high school kid actually knew how to complain to the FBI.

“Don’t get worked up. I’m just giving you advice based on our investigation. If you don’t want to talk about your uncle, then we won’t. Have some water, take a break.”

Holden let Dean catch his breath, fished out two strawberry mint candies from his suit pocket, popped one in his own mouth, and handed Dean the other.

The flavor was pleasant, and Dean’s taut nerves gradually relaxed as he chewed.

Holden then asked about Dean’s daily life, easing the tension in the office.

Seeing Dean’s face relax, Holden smiled and casually tossed out a question.

“Back to the earlier topic—Bob, how did I say he died?”

“Gunshot,” Dean replied instinctively.

“Right. And… what two letters did I say the killer left by his body?” Holden lowered his voice, coaxing him to listen closely.

“NR…” Dean answered inwardly, then his expression froze, head cocked in confusion at Holden.

“How would I know? You never told me that.”

Dean cursed inwardly.

Damn FBI—setting a trap for a high school student, waiting for me to fall in.

“Sorry, bad memory—didn’t sleep well last night.” Holden shrugged, his trick exposed.

“FBI sir, we’ve talked for fifteen minutes. I need to get back to class.”

Dean turned away, rubbed his temples, looking exhausted.

“Ok.” Holden glanced at his watch.

“I’ll be at LVPD for a while. If you remember anything, come find me at the station.”

...

After Dean left the office.

Holden opened his notebook, a list of names flooding the page.

“Vazel, Ulysses… Last…”

He wrote Dean’s name on a blank page, along with a lengthy note:

“Suffered prolonged violence from the victim, harbors resentment, fits the killer’s psychological profile.”

“Significant difference in physical strength, no calluses, no professional combat or firearms training, lacks the physical capability.”

“Alibi testimony.”

“Normal responses.”

“Bold, highly alert.”

“Dean Lu, low suspicion.”

Holden grinned, pen scratching across the paper.

“Continue observation.”

...