It was a sticky, wet day when I fell in the mud. I was wearing a raincoat and boots, but I could feel the mud, sucking at my body through a layer of rubber, as if trying to pull me into the ground. I reached into my pocket to find the cigarette case wet from the rain. Everything put me in a bad mood. I began questioning why I had taken on this case under such terrible circumstances. A woman was killed in her home. 

 

I can't remember the victim's name, but I thought I'd seen it somewhere before. Maybe in the file. That doesn't matter. My only concern is to wrap up this investigation quickly. I have something more important to do–I've poured my everything into this.

Preliminary investigations indicate that the woman died from asphyxiation. She suffered violence before her death. Her body was left out in the rain all night, giving off a disgusting odor of dirt mixed with the stench of a corpse. As a mute, her personal relationships were simple. Her parents had passed away, and she married her current husband at the age of fifteen. They have no children. She left very few belongings, except for a few ragged clothes.  

I walked straight to the kitchen and opened the drawer beneath the stove. Behind the spice bottles hid some Christian books and a stack of letters. I pulled them out. The letters were scattered across the floor. I stood on some of them, couldn't helping cursing. 

The yellowed envelopes were already covered with dense mold. I picked one up and opened one of them. Surprisingly, the handwriting of this woman, who had grown up in a small town and had received little education, was unexpectedly neat. 

Who's Jesse? Not her husband's name. Obviously, she cheated. A woman who strays is beyond forgiveness. She got what she deserves. I murmured in my heart and opened another envelope to read.

Some of the writing on the letterhead had been smudged by water, rendering the details about her husband illegible. But that didn't matter. She paid the price for her cheating to her husband. A man like every other man in town, he had a job and enjoyed gambling a few hands at the tavern–I don't like gambling with those unemployed bums. They don't have much money and are always timid and hesitant. The most exciting part of gambling is placing your bets. All in. Then hold your breath, waiting to see whether it brings you ecstasy or despair. At this thought, my fingertips tingled with anticipation. I couldn't wait to feel the texture of the pokers. With that in mind, I started rubbing the soaked carton of cigarettes in my pocket again.

I turned to look outside. My partner was nowhere to be found. I picked up a rain-softened cigarette and opened another somewhat crumpled envelope. Unlike the previous letters, the writing on the paper was scrawled, as if written by a nut.

The more she writes, the more illegible the writing is, and the more disorganized the formatting becomes. There are several wrinkles on the letterhead after the water dried. Maybe she wrote this while crying. She's completely mad. 

But where on earth did she put the money? I looked around and realized the hut had grown completely dark. I could hardly see inside. I could only hear the rain that was getting more and more rapid outside. I grabbed a flashlight off the table and barely illuminated the small area in front of me. Torn-up pieces of letter paper were scattered around the table. I picked them up and spent a little time putting them back together. I blinked my sore eyes and picked up the flashlight to illuminate the piece of stationery. 

There are a couple of bloody fingerprints on it! My hand trembled along with the weak light of the flashlight. I felt as if those handprints were going to jump out of the paper and tear my flesh and blood.

I dropped the letter, collapsing onto the floor. Everything has gone.

 

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