Chapter 1: Rainy Night Emergency

Rain drummed against the clinic's aluminum window frames, the sound dense and rapid like a flurry of drumbeats. I unscrewed my fountain pen, the nib tracing a fine line across the case file paper. Before the ink could dry, it was illuminated by the sweep of car headlights passing outside. The doorknob turned with a note of hesitation, and a second later, James Harris pushed the door open. He was drenched, the hem of his dark gray wool coat still dripping water, leaving a dark circle spreading across the beige carpet. His tie was loosened, mud stained his collar, and his eyes held a fatigue and sharpness soaked straight through by the rain.

"Elizabeth, I need a favor," James tossed his briefcase onto the sofa. The zipper burst open, spilling out several rain-soaked documents. "The Alicia Vaughan case. The police closed it ten years ago, ruled it a suicide, but I think something stinks."

I took the yellowed file, my fingertips brushing against the rough texture of the paper edges. It was a dossier left behind by the London Metropolitan Police from 2014, the paper fragile from improper storage, its edges curled.

"Alicia Vaughan, archaeologist, disappeared in November 2014," I murmured, reading the words on the file, my gaze sweeping over the official phrasing. "Last seen on the banks of the Thames River, no witnesses, no suicide note, just this medical record diagnosing her with depression."

"That's the record," James pulled a crumpled photograph from his briefcase and laid it next to the file folder. "I found this at a flea market last week. It's a snapshot of her life during her final month. Look right here."

He pointed to a glass in the corner of the photo. A fingerprint remained on the side of the glass, and around the rim was a distinct circle of black residue.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Coffee," James said. "Alicia was a heavy caffeine addict; she drank at least four espressos a day. But in her medical record, her attending physician stated that she quit caffeine due to anxiety, switching to antidepressants instead. If she'd even quit coffee, why keep the cup?"

I picked up the magnifying glass, leaning closer to the photo. The residue on the rim wasn't uniform; it showed a dried, cracked texture.

"This is instant coffee," I looked up. "Real espresso leaves an oil film on the side of the glass, and the reflection is much brighter. This is the cheap kind from the British Museum staff canteen. She hadn't completely quit; she was just maintaining a lifestyle of being 'monitored' at a specific time and place."

"You mean her depression diagnosis was fake?" James leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his breathing growing shallow.

"No, I mean her symptoms were real, but artificially amplified," I closed the file folder, the metal clasp snapping shut with a crisp click. "If a person were truly in a state of severe depression, their social withdrawal would reach an extreme level of passivity. She wouldn't actively buy instant coffee, nor would she deliberately keep the cup. This was a performance, or more accurately, compliance."

"Compliance with whom?"

"With whoever held the grip on her financial lifeline," I looked out the window. The rain had eased slightly, the streetlights stretching long pools of light across the wet pavement. "Charles Ashworth. You know, the rights to Alicia Vaughan's estate and the copyright to her precious field notes all belong to the family trust. And Ashworth is the actual controller of that trust."

James stood up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping harshly against the tile floor.

"For ten years, the police have been waiting for a perfect chain of evidence, but no one touches those with a vested interest," he snatched up his trench coat, fumbling roughly with the buttons. "I'm going to contact Victoria Carter right now. The water level data of the Thames River from ten years ago, plus the sediment layer analysis at the riverbed—only her crew has the clearance to enter those restricted zones to take samples."

"You're going to the riverbed?" I frowned. "River management is strict these days, and Victoria is getting old. She might not want to take that risk."

"She's not afraid, she just lacks a reason," James gave a cold laugh, grabbing his car keys. "And I am that reason. Elizabeth, your profiling report—I'm going to use it to pry her mouth open. If those sediment layers are hiding something, the police's closing report from back then becomes complete trash."

He walked to the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, pausing for a second.

"Be careful, Elizabeth. Charles Ashworth has a charity gala next week, and everyone eyeing Alicia's inheritance will be there. If you're going to get involved, that's the only chance."

The door closed, and the sound of the rain filled the room once more. I sat back down at the desk and reopened the stack of photos. Alicia's face looked pale in the lens, her gaze hollow, but her lips were pressed tight—a stiffness born of extreme self-restraint.

I picked up my pen and sketched a simple mind map on the paper. At the center was "Alicia Vaughan," with three lines branching out: Medical Records, Social Isolation, Financial Dependency. I drew a red cross under "Medical Records" and wrote "Forged." Next to "Social Isolation," I noted "Passive Compliance."

Time had stood still over the past ten years, but human hearts do not. Those covered-up fears and distorted truths were like silt at the bottom of a river—once stirred up, they would muddy the entire pond. I dialed Victoria Carter's phone. It rang three times before being answered, the low roar of an engine rumbling in the background.

"Captain Carter, I'm Elizabeth Ellis," I kept my voice as steady as possible. "I heard you're still running regular patrols on the upper reaches of the Thames River?"

The other end was silent for a few seconds, save for the howling wind.

"That boy Harris is fast with his news," Victoria's voice sounded like sandpaper scraping across wood. "I mean Harris. He was just down at my dock, asking a bunch of questions about the tides between November 15th and 18th ten years ago."

"Did you agree to show him?"

"I showed him the water level logs, but not the sediment data," Victoria paused, seemingly adjusting the angle of her microphone. "That data is too sensitive. Elizabeth, do you know who Alicia Vaughan was? She was the scholar my son admired most before he died. He went early, but I know she had a piece of something critical in her hands."

"Which piece?"

"A fragment dug up from the riverbank," Victoria said. "She claimed it was an unrecorded Roman metal plaque. The police said it was just an ordinary chunk of rust, but James felt something was off. He said if you want the answer, go trace where that chunk of rust went."

I hung up the phone, my fingers tapping on the tabletop. Metal plaque, chunk of rust, unrecorded. In psychological profiles, these terms pointed to a single concept: Cognitive Dissonance. Alicia had discovered facts that exceeded her professional scope or even threatened her own interests, and her reaction wasn't denial, but over-rationalization. She interpreted the metal plaque as ordinary rust to maintain psychological equilibrium.

But if it really was just rust, why did Charles Ashworth take over all her assets immediately after her disappearance?

I stood up, walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled out a heavy copy of *London Topography*. Flipping to the chapter on the banks of the Thames River, I searched for the geological survey report from around 2014. In the corner of one page, I found a crossed-out marginal note: "Abnormal metallic reflection found in riverbed silt, sample ID LB-2014-099, destroyed."

Destroyed. The word made my heart skip a beat.

I pulled out my phone and searched for "LB-2014-099." Zero search results. I tried searching "British Museum Archaeology Department lost 2014." The loading circle spun for a few seconds, popping up a few news articles about collection thefts, but none related to this ID code.

Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a message from James, containing only a single line: "There's something in the file folder's lining. Get to my office."

I grabbed my keys and the copy of *London Topography* and bolted out of the clinic. The rain outside had turned into a fine mist, the streets blurred in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. I hailed a black cab, the driver rolling down his window as rain splashed against my cuff.

"To Harris's newspaper office," I said. "Fast."

The cab slammed to a halt on the slick pavement, the tires screeching harshly against the ground. I pushed the door open and plunged into the curtain of rain. James's office was on the fifth floor of the newspaper building; there was no elevator, so I had to take the stairs. I climbed to the fifth floor, my lungs burning from oxygen deprivation.

The office door was ajar, a hint of cigarette smoke seeping through. James sat at his desk with the photocopies of the file I'd given him spread out before him. His gaze was sharper than before, his lips carrying a trace of weary satisfaction.

"You're just in time," James said. "I tore open the file folder just now, checking the seams. Look right here."

He pointed to a tiny crease in the inner lining of the folder. I leaned closer and saw that sandwiched between the double layers of kraft paper was an extremely thin card. The card was moldy, its edges corroded, but the lines upon it remained clear.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"A floor plan of the British Museum's basement levels," James picked up a pair of tweezers, carefully peeling the card away. "But look at the bottom right corner—there's a dark brown stain. I ran it through a spectrometer; it's blood. The oxidized form of hemoglobin shows that this blood coagulated ten years ago."

I stared at the map, my heart pounding violently against my ribs. The map bore no artifact labels, only cold structural lines. But right in the center of the map was an area circled in ink, next to which was scribbled a single letter: "A."

"What's 'A'?"

"Archive," James said. "The deep archives of the British Museum. That's where all the raw records of unexhibited artifacts are stored. Before Alicia disappeared, she kept applying for access to that area to view the complete spectrum of a certain metal plaque. But there are only three keys to the archive, held respectively by the director, the head of security, and... the family representative of Charles Ashworth."

"Why Ashworth?"

"Because of that metal plaque," James looked up, his gaze locking directly onto mine. "The inscription carved on it points to the ancestral assets of the Mortimer Family. William Mortimer—the man listed as a missing person ten years ago who was actually lurking in the shadows. His motive is simple: that plaque is a key that can unlock a safe containing the family's crimes. And Alicia was the only one who could read the inscriptions."

I reached out and took the map. The card was ice-cold, carrying a damp, musty odor.

"This isn't just a map," I said in a low voice. "This is her dying wish. With the last ounce of her strength in life, she hid the truth right here. The police thought she jumped in the river and killed herself, but she was running for her life. And she was clutching this map the entire time she ran."

"Now it's in our hands," James lit a cigarette. Through the swirling smoke, his expression looked grim. "Next step, we need to confirm whether William Mortimer is still alive, and whether Ashworth knows about this."

"How do we confirm?"

"Another piece of data Victoria Carter just gave me," James pulled a USB drive from his drawer. "Ten years ago, her ship salvaged a sealed metal canister from the riverbed. The canister was confiscated by the police, but the data backup stayed on her personal hard drive. The internal temperature logs of the canister show that during the three days after Alicia went out, the canister was opened three times."

I took the USB drive, my fingertips freezing.

"Three times," I repeated. "The intervals between each opening match up precisely with the times she sent out 'SOS' signals to the outside world during her final days. But she wasn't asking for rescue—she was transmitting coordinates."

"Where are the coordinates?"

This map was the final puzzle piece Alicia Vaughan had bought with her life. And I had only just laid my hands on the very first piece.