The Confession of a Dying Killer

I hovered above Bernard Johnson's desk, watching his fingertips glide across the posts on the computer screen. The title was striking—"To My Last Victim, I'm Sorry." The post was made by someone named "Jason", whose avatar showed a pitch-black forest. He claimed to have killed twenty-three people, had been on the run for fifteen years, and now, in the final stages of liver cancer, had only his last breath remaining. The first twenty-two were beasts stained with blood—drug dealers, domestic abusers, child abusers—justly condemned. Only the last was a young girl he had been deceived into killing by mistake. I stared intently at the words "young girl," my fingertips passing through the cold screen. That little girl was me, Jenny Xavier. The post described the late autumn five years ago—the abandoned wooden cabin on TW Mountain at the city's edge, the cream-colored sweater I wore, and the half-eaten orange candy in my pocket. The details were so vivid, like a rusty knife reopening the wound in my chest. Bernard Johnson's brow furrowed ever tighter, his knuckles whitening with tension. The blinds in his office were not fully drawn; sunlight spilled in, casting flickering spots on the epaulets of his police uniform. I remembered when he was eighteen, wearing that same police uniform—the police academy's—standing below my apartment, vowing to protect me forever. Back then, the sunlight had felt much warmer than it does now. The comments beneath the post were few and far between, mostly filled with skepticism. "This is utterly shameless, just to grab eyeballs." "Can the storytelling be a bit more professional? Are there good and bad murders?" "Waiting for the twist. Maybe it's a new book promotion from some writer." Bernard Johnson's fingers paused over the comment box before typing a line. "Jenny Xavier, stop playing these tricks." I was stunned, my body swaying as I drifted in mid-air. He actually thought this was from me? His finger hesitated again, deleted the original sentence, and retyped: "Jenny Xavier, if you want to catch my attention, this method is far too despicable." As the sent confirmation appeared, he suddenly slammed his phone onto the table. The phone case was a gift I gave him years ago—a black one with a crooked little police dog printed on it, drawn by me. Five years later, and he's still using it. "Zachary, prepare the car." Bernard Johnson grabbed the coat hanging over the back of the chair, his voice trembling just barely, "Take the team to TW Mountain; search according to the coordinates in the post." The person on the other end responded, he hung up, then picked up his own phone and opened our chat window. The chat history remained frozen on that night, five years ago. He sent: "Jenny, don't make a fuss. Will you come back?" I didn't reply. At that moment, I was already lying in the cold night of TW Mountain; the orange candy in my pocket had melted, clinging to my fingertips like blood. Bernard Johnson's thumb hovered over the input box for a long while before he finally typed: "Call me back immediately, or face the consequences." The message sent successfully, yet there would never be a read receipt. I followed him down the stairs, watching him pass through the hall of the Police Station. A young police officer greeted with a smile, "Captain Johnson, off to work on a case?" He nodded, his footsteps unchanged. I remembered when he first joined the force, more spirited even than these young officers; every time he solved a case, he would drag me to the street corner to eat beef noodles, calling it a victory feast. At that time, there was a light in his eyes. Now, his eyes are shrouded in a heavy fog.