Page 67 of Vera Wong's Unsolicited Advice for Murderers

Just like that, Vera’s stay at Julia’s place has come to an end. She has overstayed Julia’s welcome. She has tried to solve Marshall’s murder and she has failed miserably. It is clear, after tonight, that all of her instincts have been dreadfully, awfully wrong. None of her suspects have turned out to be the killer. Who is the killer? Did she just make it up in her desperation for some meaning, some purpose to her life? She was the one who smashed up her shop. Sure, it was because she had come downstairs one morning to find that things weren’t where they should be. But is she one hundred percent sure that someone indeed stole into her shop?

Or is it possible that Vera wanted so badly for there to have been a killer who came back for the flash drive that she made it all up? Isn’t that what the mind does as it ages? It starts conflating reality with imagination. Yes, Vera can see it now. Maybe she herself had misplaced a jar here, a canister there, and then, havingforgotten about it and with her imagination fired up by Marshall’s death, she jumped to the conclusion that someone had been in her teahouse.

And then she’d taken that idea and run with it. And why? Because deep in her heart of hearts, Vera has been tired of the teahouse. Tired of opening it every morning and getting just one single customer, and even then, it’s always been clear that the only reason Alex came by was because he pitied her. And the emptiness of her shop is merely a reminder of how she has failed. She hadn’t expected Julia to offer to have her move in; that had been a surprise, and oh, what an incredibly wonderful time it had been, while it lasted.

For a few precious weeks, Vera experienced a renewed purpose in life. Received multiple hugs throughout the day, little arms around her neck, and a little sticky face kissing her cheeks. She had been brought back into the sunlight, and now, through her own doing, she has been cast back out into the darkness. And now that she has experienced the warmth of the sun, the darkness seems even more bleak than before.

Vera barely notices the long walk back to her house, but by the time she gets there, her feet are covered in blisters. She doesn’t notice the blisters either. She does notice the sun-bleached sign that says:VERA WANG’S WORLD-FAMOUS TEAHOUSE, and the sight of it makes tears rush to her eyes. She chokes back her sobs and unlocks the door, letting it fall shut behind her.

The teahouse is empty. The walls have been stripped bare, the furniture taken out by Riki. It looks like an old abandoned shell, a house occupied only by ghosts. Her phone rings then, and Vera leaps back to life, scrambling to take it out of her bag.

“Julia!” she calls into the receiver.

There’s a beat of silence, then someone says, “Ma?”

“Tilly!” Vera takes the phone away from her ear and stares at the screen. It does indeed say Tilbert Wong. “Oh, Tilly. You have called.” She can taste tears at the back of her throat. Her son must have felt that something was wrong through their mother-son bond.

“Uh, yeah. You haven’t texted or called for ages. Is everything okay?”

Vera nods, her face scrunching up into a silent sob. “Yes,” she manages to say after a while. She looks around the dark, empty store. “Well, the shop is—well, is a long story, but the shop is a bit empty.”

“Oh? Are you closing it down?”

Vera is about to say that no, of course she isn’t, when Tilly says, “About time, Ma. Nobody even knows it’s there. Thank god you’re closing it down. You should sell. Prices in Chinatown are going up, you could get a really good price for it.”

Thank god you’re closing it down.So much relief in his voice. So much history in this little shop, Vera and Jinlong pouring their hearts and souls into it, and now her son is thanking god that she wants to close it down. And the thing is, he’s not wrong. Vera knows this. The tiny flicker of hope that had sparked when her phone rang dies.

“Okay, Tilly. Thank you for calling. You’re right. I go to bed now.” She hangs up and trudges up the stairs, not bothering to turn on any of the lights. She goes straight to her cold bedroom and slides under the covers, where she curls up and makes herself as tiny as possible, wishing she could just simply disappear.

THIRTY-SIX

VERA

It seems it is daytime once again, the gray light streaming in weakly through the gaps in Vera’s curtains, not enough to brighten the room, just enough to disturb her sleep. Vera turns, stares at the dribbly light for a bit. She has lost count of the number of times the room has turned dark, then light, then dark again. Now it is light, but it does not matter very much at all to Vera whether it is light or dark. She rolls over and closes her eyes once more.

THIRTY-SEVEN

RIKI

Riki, if you don’t get rid of that trash in the parking lot, I will get rid of it,” Mrs.Barrie says.

Riki bites back a groan of frustration and simply nods. After she leaves, he stands at the door for a while, grinding his teeth. The thing is, Mrs.Barrie isn’t even being unreasonable. “That trash” is Vera’s furniture, which he foolishly took back to his apartment building and begged for permission to stash in the parking lot while he works on refurbishing the lot. That had been almost two weeks ago, and he had indeed been working on them; about half is finished and looks pretty damn good, if he does say so. But then that horrible dinner had happened, and ever since then, just the sight of the furniture makes Riki feel nauseous.

But Mrs.Barrie is right. He can’t just let the furniture sit there in the parking lot, taking up space and collecting dust. With a resigned sigh, Riki trudges downstairs to the parking lot to survey the mess. Once he’s there, though, he gets a sense of satisfaction from seeing the pieces he refurbished. They still retain the sametraditional shape, but he’s sanded them down and painted them a matte black in color, and they look so sleek. He decides to load up the finished ones into his car and take them to Vera’s; then at least she’ll have some furniture in her shop while he continues working on the rest.

It takes quite a bit of maneuvering, but at last, all seven pieces of refurbished furniture are loaded into his car. Yes, there is a wooden chair resting on the passenger seat at a precarious angle, with one leg aimed at Riki’s temple, and yes, if he were to get into an accident now he would most definitely end up with the wooden leg speared through an eye socket, but what is life without a few calculated risks? Still, Riki makes sure to drive very, very slowly to Chinatown, gulping when he gets to the ultra-hilly parts of the city.

Vera’s neighborhood makes him think of Sana, which, three days after the awful dinner, still makes him misty-eyed. He texted her four times in the last couple of days before realizing that he needs to respect her space, and so had sent her one final message:

I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk. If you’re ever ready. If you’re not, I understand. I’m sorry. X.

He tries not to think of the last time he and Sana were here, laughing and chatting so easily as they cleaned up Vera’s teahouse.

“Vera, Vera,” Riki mutters to himself as he gets out and gazes at the teahouse. He still finds it hard to believe that Vera was the one who smashed up her own shop. The thought makes him shake his head, but he’s also smiling. Despite everything, he still cares about Vera, even though she is obviously a bit batty. He goes up to the front door, carrying two of the chairs, and knocks. Thedoor swings open, the little bell chiming dully. Huh. Maybe she’s decided to reopen it already? But without any furniture?

But when Riki steps inside, it’s clear that the teahouse is not, in fact, open for business. Although it’s still bright outside, the inside of the teahouse is dark; none of the old lights or the new ones that Oliver installed are on. It feels empty. But then why is the front door open?

“Hello?” Riki calls out, placing the chairs down carefully. He looks around the shop and tries again. “Vera?”

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