Silk

When I woke up that night, I was standing at the door of my house wearing my coat and there was a cut in the palm of my hand. I can't remember anything about that night. The next morning, my father and mother were poisoned by gas and died. The police said: An accident. Only I know it wasn't an accident. The recorder in my car was formatted and my father's text messages were deleted; someone wore my coat, drove my car, and signed an insurance policy in my name with my beneficiary written on it. I have the motive, I have the time, and even the memory, I have spared for her. I thought I did it and even thought about confessing. Until Jiang Che put a bayonet photo in front of me: "The person who drove your car that night was not you." The person in the car has a pointed face and narrow shoulders—that's my sister. She understands me best. She changed my choice for me, "thought everything out" for me, and arranged this "accident" for me without leakage. Every word she said seemed innocent when taken apart; but when put together, it was like a knife. I'm not even a knife. I was just a thread held in her hand for twenty-eight years. I thought it was family affection.