The Zhao residence sat atop Crescent Hill, a modernist mansion of glass and steel that seemed to float above the city like a crystal palace. Chen Wei rang the bell and waited, listening to the wind whisper through the ornamental bamboo that lined the driveway.
The door opened to reveal a young woman in her late twenties, her hair cut in a severe bob that framed a face both beautiful and cold. She wore a black dress that seemed to absorb the afternoon light.
"Detective Chen? I'm Zhao Xiaoling. My father's secretary said you would come." She stepped aside, her movements precise and economical. "Please. I'll make tea."
The interior of the house was a museum of glass art-chandeliers that caught the light and fractured it into rainbows, vases that seemed to hold liquid fire, sculptures that twisted and flowed like frozen water. And everywhere, on every shelf and table, glass swans. Hundreds of them, in every size and color imaginable.
"My mother's collection," Xiaoling said, returning with a porcelain tea set. "She was obsessed with them. Said they represented grace and fidelity." She poured with steady hands, the amber liquid steaming in the cool air. "Ironic, considering."
"Considering what, Miss Zhao?"
Xiaoling's lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. "Considering my mother was neither graceful nor faithful. But you didn't come here to discuss family secrets, did you, Detective?"
"I came to ask about your whereabouts three nights ago."
"I was here, alone. I have no alibi, if that's what you're asking." She set down her cup with a delicate clink. "But I didn't kill my mother. I wanted to, many times. She was cruel, manipulative, a poison that infected everything she touched. But I didn't kill her."
Chen Wei studied her face, searching for the tells he had learned to read over fifteen years of detective work-the micro-expressions, the involuntary twitches, the way a person's eyes moved when they lied. But Xiaoling's gaze remained steady, her hands still.
"Your father mentioned a woman named Su Yue."
The teacup froze halfway to Xiaoling's lips. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then: "Su Yue was my mother's lady's maid. She disappeared when I was seven. I barely remember her-just a kind voice, hands that braided my hair."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know. My parents never spoke of it. But I found something once, when I was twelve." Xiaoling set down her cup and rose, moving to a cabinet in the corner. She returned with a leather journal, its pages yellowed with age. "My mother's diary. I wasn't supposed to read it."
She opened to a page marked with a silk ribbon. The handwriting was elegant, flowing, but the words were anything but beautiful. Chen Wei read: "The girl knows too much. She suspects. She must be silenced, whatever the cost. The river is deep, and the current is strong. No one will question an accident."
The entry was dated three days before Su Yue's disappearance.
"I kept this for twenty years," Xiaoling whispered. "Waiting for the right moment. Now I think that moment has come."