71. Abby's Misfortune

"I confess."

In the interrogation room, faced with a mountain of evidence, Rosy Tony admitted her guilt without hesitation.

Outside the room, the officers who had stayed up all night erupted in cheers, as jubilant as fans whose favorite team had just clinched the championship.

Dean, meanwhile, was suddenly flooded with notifications before his eyes.

Investigation progress: 100%.

Case of the deceased wife: complete.

Reward ready for collection.

Collect.

Experience +40

Level: 2 (20/300) → (60/300)

“Well done, kid. You’re young, you’ve earned credit but you’re not cocky, and you generously invited everyone to dinner,” Carl Rand said, rubbing his shiny bald head and speaking in his gruff voice. “Let’s do it tonight. Skip the support assignment and let’s all have a meal at Franklin’s Barbecue.”

“Listen to the veterans share their precious experience later,” said another officer, the blond-haired Moore, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders in a half-serious, half-joking way. “That way you’ll be set for your future. Besides, Thomas isn’t the only one in the squad with a pretty daughter—other folks would be happy to have you as a son-in-law.”

“Get lost!” Thomas shoved him with mock annoyance, grinning as he scolded, “Don’t think you can steal my future son-in-law!”

“Sorry, guys, I don’t drink,” Dean said with a shrug.

“Boring kid! How do you relieve stress if you don’t drink?”

“Have some juice, then.”

“OK.”

...

Dean was still a rookie, barely out of training. During the dinner, he rarely had a chance to join in the conversation. Most of the time, he just listened to the experienced veterans recount their past cases and share anecdotes from their families. Still, he found it all quite fascinating.

Unfortunately, all the stories were about ordinary murder cases. The six members of Carl’s squad seemed to have never encountered anything supernatural.

…

After the dinner, Dean’s life quickly returned to its usual rhythm.

In this last case, he had revealed just enough of his problem-solving ability, received strong recommendations from Holden, and, with one generous meal, had drawn closer to his colleagues. Carl, their team leader, greatly appreciated this and promised that, upon receiving the next new case, he would let Dean join the investigation as an intern, so he could gain some real experience.

This perfectly solved the issue of future case sources.

But major cases weren’t a daily occurrence. Over the next half month, Dean diligently continued with the routine volunteer work and persisted with his monotonous daily training.

Dean Lu

Character Level: 2 (60/300)

Age: 18

Constitution: 12.6

Strength: 10.7 → 10.8

Agility: 12.2

Perception: 10.4

Spirit: 14.3

Willpower: 12.2

...

Skills: 4/5

Hand-to-Hand Combat lv1 (134/200 → 142/200)

Shooting lv1 (80/200 → 88/200)

Shadows of the Past lv1 (7 → 22/200)

Balanced Meditation Technique lv1 (58 → 73/200)

...

With his shooting skills at this level, Dean rarely missed a stationary handgun target within fifteen meters, regularly scoring 40 out of 50 in five-shot precision tests.

He began training with moving targets at ten meters, as well as practicing with the more accurate AR-15 rifle.

...

Late September.

All over campus, girls in colorful short sleeves and skirts confidently showed off their figures. Dean strolled under the leafy trees, admiring the view, but he’d only gone a few steps when—

“Hey, Dean!”

Under a cedar, a stranger—an Asian boy—waved to him from afar.

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Dean!”

By the stairs, a delicate-looking underclasswoman blushed as she greeted him with a wave. The girls around her quickly followed suit, flashing warm, friendly smiles.

“Hey, bro, had lunch yet? Want some?”

At the roadside, a group of boisterous Black students were cursing energetically. Wazelle, one of them, hurried up to Dean and respectfully offered him a tuna sandwich.

“Thanks, but I’ve got my own lunch.”

Dean hurried to his classroom, but as he passed the lockers, a Mexican kid in sunglasses—clearly the spoiled rich type—was hawking “herbs” with gusto. The moment he spotted Dean, he straightened up and saluted.

“Respect, Kung Fu master!”

...

“What’s with these guys? Is the sunshine making their bones soft? Can’t I just keep a low profile?” Dean complained as he joined his friends on the green lawn for lunch.

“No helping it. The whole Lake Mead incident still has everyone thinking you’re Superman. Only after you graduate will your fame die down,” Gretchen explained, expertly snagging the unopened yogurt from his tray and taking a long sip. “How’s the volunteering going lately? Still getting used to it?”

“Not bad.” In return, Dean speared an untouched slice of ham from Gretchen’s plate and devoured it. “By the way, your dad, Thomas Allen, has been a huge help.”

“If you’re grateful, then come with me to the shooting range after school today! I can’t beat you at hand-to-hand, but I’ll show you a thing or two in marksmanship,” Gretchen said, her slender fingers flexing as her eyes sparkled with excitement.

Rust and Brittany exchanged a subtle glance across the table.

“Guys, what’s the fun in target practice? Let’s make it more exciting—hunting season’s on. Who wants in?” Baker offered. “I’ll handle the hunting grounds and guides, and I guarantee you’ll love it.”

“I don’t want to hurt innocent animals,” Janie said, shaking her head while sucking on a fruit candy.

“My gun only aims at criminals,” Gretchen declared righteously.

No one else seemed interested in hunting either.

Only Dean’s expression shifted slightly.

“How would it work?” he asked.

“Simple. After some basic training, safety courses, and getting your license, you buy some hunting gear—clothes, shoes, socks—then you’re free to sweat it out under the guidance of a pro. In just over a month, by mid-November, you can hunt wild boar and mountain goats around Las Vegas,” Baker explained. “Interested? I’ll call you then.”

“How much would it cost?” Dean asked. “And do you have a hunting weapon?”

“I’ve got an AR-15.”

“You supply your own ammo. Under two hundred bucks.”

“Count me in.”

They made tentative plans.

...

“By the way, guys, what’s going on with Abby?” Brittany asked, scanning her friends with concern. “She’s been out for a week. When will she be back?”

Gretchen stirred her cereal with a spoon and pressed her lips together, clearly worried.

“She’s been running a high fever these days, always having nightmares. She can’t come to school for now.”

“Haha, so you do care,” Janie teased. “You always claim you’re not friends anymore, but you’re still concerned.”

Gretchen turned, her brows drawn in protest.

“Our families are neighbors. Her mom drops by ours every day to chat endlessly. I can’t block my ears even if I wanted to.”

“All right, Miss Stubborn... Let’s all go visit Abby after school then,” Rust suggested, wiping his mouth and looking around.

“Agreed!”

“Seconded!”

...

After school, Dean and his five friends drove to Abby’s house, located in a middle-class neighborhood on the south side.

The landscaping was lush; dense shrubs and palm trees lined the streets, their fragrance drifting in the breeze through the car windows. On both sides stood neat houses with red brick walls and green tiles, each with front and back yards.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Gretchen, in the passenger seat, suddenly sat up and pointed out the window at Abby’s front gate in surprise.

Three police cars were parked in a row, their rooftop lights flashing harshly. Three officers in khaki uniforms, the LVPD badge pinned to their chests, stood guard outside the yard. Their faces were grim, their expressions screaming “Keep Away.”

Dean instantly recognized them as members of Carl’s team. Getting out, he walked over.

“Marcus, Crusoe, Carol… What are you doing here?”

“Good timing, kid. We’ve got a new case,” the burly, hawk-nosed officer said, glancing back at the two-story house. “Since the boss said to look after you, want to come back to the station with us later?”

“What case? Did something happen to Abby Clark or her family?” Gretchen interjected, worried.

“Sorry, niece. Thomas told us specifically, this has nothing to do with you. Go home and wait. If there’s news, your dad will tell you himself,” said another officer, a thin Latino, shaking his head.

“Abby’s my good… my classmate. I need to know what happened to her,” Gretchen insisted, trying to push into the yard. Rust, Baker, and the others got out of the car to back her up, but the officers formed a human wall to block them.

“Officer, Abby’s been missing from school for a week. She’s not… she’s not in trouble, is she?” Baker asked anxiously.

“Idiot, shut your crow’s mouth!” Rust smacked Baker’s arm. “Who curses their friends like that?”

“Quiet! I’ll say it one last time—this has nothing to do with you. Don’t hang around here. Go home, all of you!” the burly officer ordered sternly.

Creak—

The front door suddenly opened.

Carl, his Mediterranean scalp gleaming, marched out with a handcuffed, skinny girl in denim overalls. Her hair was a mess, dark circles heavy under her eyes. A middle-aged woman with red, tear-swollen eyes followed, shouting and sobbing.

“Abby is innocent! She never hurt anyone!”

“Abby, Aunt Raj, what happened?” Gretchen hurried forward to support the distraught woman, her gaze turning to her childhood friend.

“I don’t know,” Abby said, shaking her pale face, her thin body trembling as if in the grip of a seizure, her voice thick with tears. “They’re saying I killed a kid, someone named Bucky Flynn, but I’ve never even heard that name.”

“My poor Abby has been home sick all week, never went anywhere. How could she have killed someone?” Aunt Raj clung to Gretchen’s hand, eyes brimming with tears. “Please, save my Abby. She always treated you like her own sister.”

She turned, pleading with Carl, who remained stern.

“Enough, ma’am! I’ve read you your rights and shown the warrant. Please don’t delay any longer,” Carl’s voice and gaze were as cold as a winter night. “The law doesn’t wrong the innocent, but it won’t let the guilty go. Your daughter Abby is eighteen—an adult. She has to answer for her actions and bear criminal responsibility.”

The woman protested desperately, but Carl Dawson pried her hands loose from Abby, gripped Abby’s thin shoulders, and, ignoring the stunned high schoolers, escorted her to the back seat of a police car.

“Dean, get in,” Carl said, signaling with his eyes before turning to Gretchen, his expression stern. “You stay here. Don’t make this harder on me.”

“Leave it to me, everyone. I’ll handle it. When have I ever let you down?” Dean reassured his friends, patting Gretchen’s arm before climbing into one of the three police cars heading back to LVPD.

In the back seat, he glanced at Abby—her chin sharp, eyes sunken, face drawn to the point of gauntness—and asked about the situation. But Abby was too frightened and stammered incoherently.

Resigned, Dean leaned in to quietly advise her, “Listen, Abby. If you’re scared, if you don’t know anything, then say nothing. Wait for your family’s lawyer—they’ll tell you what to do and how to answer.”

Abby nodded vigorously. “I understand, Dean! Please believe me, I’m innocent. I haven’t done anything!”

“For your sake, I hope so. Otherwise, not even God can save you.”

(The previous chapter couldn’t be revised, so this plot is skipped. My apologies.)

(The chapter ends.)