The funeral home’s farewell room was freezing from the air conditioning, and Wu Mo felt a chill creeping up the back of his neck. He wore a black shirt so faded from washing that the cuffs were coming apart, and no one had thought to get him a new outfit. His biological father’s body lay only a few steps away, surrounded by wreaths and dressed in his police uniform, his cap badge gleaming. But Wu Mo could hardly recognize the face. The makeup was so white that he looked neither alive nor dead, more like a wax figure.
One group after another came to pay their respects. Most were his father’s former colleagues, some in uniform and some not. Some patted Wu Mo on the shoulder with red-rimmed eyes and told him to take care. Others clasped his mother’s hand and murmured, “Old Wu was a good man.” Wu Mo stood there like a prop, like a set piece, like an outsider with nothing to do with any of it.
His mother stood nearby, crying in earnest, her face smeared with tears and snot, her handkerchief wrung nearly dry. Beside her stood a middle-aged man in a suit, his polished shoes gleaming. One hand rested on his mother’s elbow, the other was in his pocket, and his face wore the solemn expression reserved for funerals: brows slightly furrowed, mouth turned down, eyes full of just the right amount of pity. This was the wealthy logistics tycoon everyone talked about. What was his name again? Wu Mo couldn’t quite remember. Zheng something Hai, maybe.
“Xiao Mo, come here.” His mother beckoned to him, her voice hoarse from crying, her words rasping like a broken gong.
