TTB C16

Chapter 16 

13 They finally found the other missing person in this case…

Yun City First Hospital, 14th floor Oncology, VIP special-care ward at the end of the corridor, Room 1436.

Tang Ailian wore a blue uniform, sitting blankly in a chair.

That blue marked her identity: special-care aide. She tended to critically ill patients without family—some bedridden and unable to care for themselves, some needing wheelchairs for movement.

They did the dirtiest, heaviest work.

On-call 24 hours, eating and sleeping onsite, always watching the patients’ condition—wiping bodies, feeding, turning them in bed—constantly observing for changes. No phones, no books.

They had no separate lodging; they slept in the ward. When a rare gap appeared, they would rush to the restroom to shower, then hand-wash their spare clothes.

At night they lay on narrow companion chairs, barely asleep before a patient summoned them again. Around six in the morning, they rose to a new day of work.

Single rooms were tolerable; two- or three-bed rooms were worse—the family’s snoring thundered. They had to endure without earplugs; if a patient needed help or went into danger, failing to rise in time meant scolding—or dismissal.

Red Sister arranged their three meals; supplies were delivered regularly. She sometimes gave them a bit of cash—usable only in the hospital convenience store.

She had lived like this for two years, ever since fleeing home.

Her patient now slept; half a bottle of IV drip remained. Clothes were washed. It wasn’t mealtime; she could rest briefly.

A commotion sounded outside the door, and Tang flinched, rising sharply to peek into the hallway. It was family visiting the neighboring patient, holding flower baskets and fruit hampers.

Breathing out, she watched the cheerful family and suddenly thought of her two dead children. If alive, the elder would be a teenager by now; the younger would be a few years old.

A sour ache spread through her—when the older one died, he already called her “Mama.”

It was a Saturday night. At noon, Guo Mucun had attended a banquet, drunk heavily, and slept all afternoon.

She cooked while tending the baby. The baby spilled a bottle of milk; she scrambled to mop it up. Just then, the pot on the stove boiled over; she rushed to turn off the flame.

Frazzled, she muttered at Guo—asked him for help—and the child began to cry.

Guo suddenly exploded. From the bed he kicked the child to the floor. She heard the head thud against the ground—a hard thump.

She screamed and gathered the child up into her arms.

His face twisted like a demon: “No crying!” Then pointing at her, a warning: “You either!”

Whether stunned or injured, the baby did stop crying.

She felt the bump at the back of the head—not large. She dared not mention the hospital—only prayed silently that all would be well.

Anxious, she watched him constantly. He seemed okay.

Near midnight, the child suddenly convulsed, vomited, eyes rolling back—fading fast.

“Mama’s here, Mama’s here—don’t be afraid—we’re going to the hospital…” She trembled, choking on sobs, clutching the child tight.

Even Guo seemed startled, hastily gathering things.

Before they could leave, the child’s body cooled in her arms.

She cried, lost, “My child—my child…”

Guo froze a second. Then he moved—his hand clamped on her throat. “I’m at fault—but you’re not clean either. No—you’re the culprit. You! You killed him. If you hadn’t scolded me, he wouldn’t have cried, and I wouldn’t have hit him.”

“If you dare call the police, I’ll say you pushed him—you didn’t watch him. Try it—see who they believe. Even if I go to prison, I’ll drag you down with me. It’s an ‘accident’—it won’t be death penalty. When I’m out, I’ll butcher you.”

He cursed without end; his hands tightened; she couldn’t breathe. “I’ll strangle you now, then end myself!”

Her face soaked in tears, breath cut off—she felt close to death.

Darkness swallowed her eyes. She beat at him but couldn’t budge him—despair welled. She even thought—perhaps end it, follow the child.

After a moment, his hands loosened slightly; she gulped air.

He said, “The kid fell by himself. We weren’t nearby. That’s what happened. If our stories match, no one suspects anything.”

His tone softened. “We’re young. We can have another. If you agree, nod—I’ll let go.”

Survival triumphed; she nodded without thinking.

When the hand left her throat, hatred for her weakness surged—why had she called him for help? She cried until drained—feeling like an accomplice who had killed her own son.

In the end, she told no one.

But her suffering didn’t end.

When she was pregnant again, she made tomato-egg soup—too little salt. Guo kicked her belly twice; the baby miscarried.

Later she understood: no matter how many she conceived, they wouldn’t grow up—they would only suffer, living in fear all their lives.

She had tried to “not see, not think,” even took to vegetarian meals and Buddhist chants. But sharing a home made it pointless.

She was over forty. Seeing him drink at noon and go out again in the afternoon, she asked, “What time will you be back?”

“Not your business.” He flared—grabbed a kitchen knife and slashed. She raised her hand to block; the blade lodged into bone, nearly severing her palm. Terrified, she staggered for the door, shouting for help.

He beat her there and locked it. With a blood‑smeared hand, she pounded the iron.

He yanked her hair and slammed her head into the door. “I said—shout!”

Punches and kicks rained; she slid down, body failing.

Lying on the cold floor, she made a decision: she would escape—leave this man.

A beast without humanity—one who killed his own son.

After moving in with him, sleepness nights became countless. She had considered killing him in his sleep—but couldn’t do it.

She realized—stay, and only death lay ahead.

She thought of many ways—fleeing to a strange city, becoming a nun—but none seemed workable.

Finally, a kind lay devotee introduced Red Sister. She found a place to survive.

But life here wasn’t “good.” Time lost meaning—only day and night cycling.

Space was limited; endless labor without rest; fear and pressure never eased.

Sometimes she felt like a prisoner in her own life—sentenced to life in a cage of days.

Noticing this, Tang realized tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away, rubbing her aching palm.

The wound had closed on the surface, but the deep scar still limited her. Before heavy rains, pain in the palm flared.

She checked the time and went to fetch water in the hall.

Passing the nurses’ station, she saw the flowers again—purple.

This was Red Sister’s rule: flower colors signaled urgency—danger near or not.

The most severe was purple; purple meant: stay on this floor only. Red meant: do not leave the inpatient building. Pink allowed a brief step outside. Only Yi Ren allowed free movement within the hospital.

This had happened before. Last year, a fellow aide’s husband was hospitalized; Red Sister sent purple carnations for a week, until he was discharged—the flowers turned red.

At the end of last month, when Guo came, flowers were purple for two days—then things calmed and colors shifted.

Today, who knew why—it was purple again. Who knew when this crisis would end.

Xiao Liu fetched water too—a shy girl, the youngest of the aides, with delicate skin barely older than the junior nurses. Speech gentle—clearly college‑educated—yet even she had ended up here.

She also saw the purple—face drawn, dark circles heavy, brow creased. Before the kettle filled, a nurse ran over. “Xiao Liu—your patient vomited again—come clean up.”

Flustered, Xiao Liu nearly burned herself.

Tang took her kettle. “I’ll do it. I’ll bring it to you later.”

“Thank you, Auntie Tang,” Xiao Liu said.

Yes—Auntie Tang.

Tang’s smile turned bitter.

Here, to avoid questions, aside from showing a copy of an ID when hired, they never shared their names. “Auntie Tang.” “Xiao Liu.” Those became names.

She had just delivered two kettles of water to two rooms when a disturbance rose by the elevators. Hearing it, she stiffened and, on instinct, closed the ward door.

Back to the wall, her heart pounded—hands trembling.

A premonition whispered—this time, they had come for her.

Her whole body shook uncontrollably.

Sure enough, within two minutes a nurse knocked. “Auntie Tang, please come out.”

—

He Lin brought Li Shang and Cheng Xiaoyi to the ward door.

He saw a middle‑aged woman in a blue aide uniform shuffle out in tiny steps—eyes full of fear.

At last, they had found the other missing person in the case—Tang Ailian.

—

In the hospital corridor, He Lin showed his ID. “Hello—are you Tang Ailian?”

Li Shang took out pen and paper, recording to the side.

Tang brushed her hair back. “I am…”

“I’m He Lin, captain of Yun City Bureau’s Missing Persons Investigation Division. Two years ago, your husband Guo Mucun reported you missing; police have been searching for you.” He paused. “Guo Mucun recently passed away.”

“P‑passed away?” Tang covered her mouth, body trembling—wanting to cry, but no tears came.

He Lin judged at a glance—it was feigned grief. Her eyes slid left—none of the raw pain of losing a loved one. Not enough surprise—fear overshadowed everything—fear born from police questioning here.

Unable to summon tears, she gave up. She even felt the urge to smile—biting her lips to force a blank expression.

She asked, “H‑how did he die?”

Her voice was small, stammered—as if she hadn’t had a normal conversation in a long time.

He Lin answered politely, officially: “It involves a criminal case. Please cooperate with us and come to the bureau for questioning. We will clarify the matter shortly.”