Blood type changes.
After transplantation, the patient’s blood type will match that of the donor.
Jiang Yan stared at these two sentences for a long time before finally letting out a quiet tsk.
She recalled her conversation with Le Yi in the hospital room.
When Le Yi spoke of her experiences with Pingping and the underground circus, she never mentioned her own blood type. Only when Jiang Yan prompted her did Le Yi offer a few brief replies.
Even then, Le Yi’s answers blurred time and identity. If Jiang Yan hadn’t realized there was an issue with their conversation and thought back on it now, she never would have noticed anything amiss in Le Yi’s words.
Because technically, Le Yi was not wrong—she didn’t lie at all.
She merely obscured the subject and the timeline, giving Jiang Yan the impression that her blood type had always been thus.
At this thought, Jiang Yan let out a breath.
Still, knowing now was not too late.
From the information in this paper, it seemed even more likely that the spirit behind these events was Pingping.
Given Pingping’s physical condition, it was highly improbable that she could have undergone bone marrow transplantation.
So after this surgery, her death was almost inevitable.
If Pingping died as a result, she must have harbored resentment at the moment of her death. Such hatred, once formed, would turn its energy field directly against Jiang He, Sun Xinzhi, and Le Yi.
Jiang He was already dead. Sun Xinzhi was outside Pingping’s energy field. Only Le Yi remained within her grasp.
Thus, Pingping’s obsession transformed into a deadly energy field targeting Le Yi, forcing her to flee for her life within its bounds, eventually crushing her at whim.
Le Yi was the infected white mouse. The other children had simply been dragged in.
Or perhaps Pingping hated the others as well.
She might have resented their healthy lives, wondered why only she had to suffer so much. With such a mindset, treating all four children as infected mice made sense.
Still, the energy field might have belonged to Jiang He. The likelihood was fifty-fifty.
Jiang Yan folded the two sheets of faxed paper and tucked them into her clothes. She shut the door and returned to the fourth floor.
The fourth floor was silent; the moonlight of the deep night was cold, pooling on the white tiles like spilled water. Jiang Yan quietly twisted open the door to 405 and slipped back into her room.
All was still.
She closed her eyes and began to sift through the information she had.
Earlier, she’d pushed aside her thoughts to avoid disturbing anyone. Now, she needed to think more deeply.
The strangest point was this: why had Le Yi tried to deceive her?
Le Yi had no choice about the operation. Her fate had always been controlled by Jiang He, who sought immense profit from the rare blood type, wanting to transfer Pingping’s blood type to Le Yi. By sheer coincidence, Le Yi was a matching recipient for Pingping’s marrow, so the transplant proceeded.
Fairly speaking, Le Yi had done nothing wrong in the matter—even if she hadn’t refused, it was not her fault. So why would she try to hide this?
Jiang Yan considered several scenarios, but in the end, saw two as the most likely.
First, Le Yi felt guilty toward Pingping.
Even if everything she did was under Jiang He’s pressure, Pingping’s life effectively ended because of her. She didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it.
Second, Le Yi intended to completely erase Pingping’s existence.
This conclusion stemmed from the other three children. After partnering with Fang Yong, Le Yi requested that he erase Pingping from the others’ memories. She herself, due to her constitution, could not forget, but she longed to. Thus, she hypnotized herself—believing her blood type was innate, that there were no traces of others upon her, that she was only herself.
With time, she would forget Pingping completely, just like everyone else—and forget those bitter memories once and for all.
Jiang Yan leaned toward the second possibility.
When speaking, Le Yi had shown no intent to lie—Jiang Yan had sensed avoidance in her, but not deception.
But the matter itself was a lie: to cover a lie would surely give rise to the desire to lie—except Le Yi had none.
Perhaps it was because, in her heart, she already genuinely believed her blood type had always belonged to her.
Those vague statements were simply instinctive avoidance.
Evading pain was always the default when facing suffering. There was nothing about it to criticize.
Next, Jiang Yan turned to the second oddity.
Why hadn’t Jiang An helped Jiang He repay that eight million?
At present, any nurse in Baishan Sanatorium could draw Le Yi’s blood and conduct transactions with wealthy clients. Le Yi’s value was known to all. As the current director, Jiang An surely held final authority over blood draws. With eight million in debt, she had no reason to let nurses draw Le Yi’s blood at will.
Sun Xinzhi said in the fax that last year, he’d emailed Jiang He and written letters, but received no reply.
Meanwhile, Jiang An, to maintain her cover, had to visit Jiang He’s house from time to time—she could not have missed the bills and collection notices.
If she truly wanted to save Baishan Sanatorium and retain the position she had usurped, she had every reason to pay back the money.
So why hadn’t she?
Was it because she didn’t want to?
Impossible—she couldn’t not want to…
Or was it that she simply couldn’t?
At this, a chord inside Jiang Yan tightened, and she opened her eyes.
Jiang An can’t pay the debt.
That doesn’t add up.
Why couldn’t she? How could she not afford it?
Le Yi’s blood had been drawn so many times—the records in the file bag showed dozens of extractions. The total value far exceeded ten million. How, then, could Jiang An not repay eight million?
“………”
Unless the information in the files was false.
*
Now the real contradiction surfaced.
If the files are fabricated, if Le Yi’s blood had not been drawn that many times, if it hadn’t fetched such prices—then why did Jiang Yan sense no inclination to lie in Le Yi?
That differs from Le Yi’s imprecise avoidance of her blood type’s origin or subject.
When Le Yi spoke about how often her blood was drawn and how valuable it was, her statements were very clear.
When threatening Yu Renwan, Le Yi stated explicitly, “The sanatorium’s funds come entirely from me; those nurses bought their designer handbags thanks to my blood.”
Later, in the hospital room, Le Yi said her blood could sell for four hundred thousand per four hundred milliliters.
Jiang Yan had assumed these statements were true.
But if they were, why couldn’t Jiang An pay her debt?
No matter if Jiang An was a gambler, no matter if she was drowning in other debts, if she sought to replace Jiang He and keep Baishan Sanatorium, repaying those eight million would have been her top priority.
If she had the money, why didn’t she settle the debt?
So strange.
Utterly strange.
Jiang Yan closed her eyes.
What was real, after all?
Jiang Yan abruptly realized that some things she had trusted as fact could also be false. She decided it was necessary to categorize all her information.
—First came the absolutely true.
Those facts that originated from outside, beyond the influence of Baishan Sanatorium’s spirit—these were true.
For example, the place existing as a semi-energy field, with a spirit lurking behind it; medical staff and various patients being present; all these patients abandoned by their families; the circus’s existence; Jiang He purchasing five children for training; Jiang He acquiring Baishan Sanatorium to become the third director; the nurses’ complaints of Jiang He’s sudden personality and memory changes, largely based at their own homes—these confirm Jiang An replaced Jiang He as director.
Those facts could be deemed true.
—Then, those that might hold true.
Anything originating from inside the sanatorium, from the mouths of ordinary patients or the children, or derived from the files—these might or might not be true.
For example, that the children were committed as psychiatric patients; that Le Yi had a rare blood type; that Le Yi possessed spiritual sight; that Pingping died in her first year here; that Le Yi had made an agreement with the doctors; that the game was played every Sunday.
Any of those could be true, or not.
—Lastly, there was anything found in the faxes.
Jiang Yan could not verify whether the faxes had been tampered with once she entered the sanatorium, and their suspiciously timely appearance suggested they were likely half-true, half-false.
At the thought, Jiang Yan let out a long breath.
It was a mess.
There was just too much uncertain information.
For the first time, Jiang Yan felt inundated by so much chaos.
The root cause was that she now doubted her own abilities; she’d always been able to tell if someone was lying, and had therefore believed the children and Le Yi—but what she saw now contradicted her deductions.
—If Le Yi hadn’t lied, then Jiang An’s lack of money made no sense.
—If Le Yi had lied, why hadn’t she sensed any deceit in her?
Was she supposed to close her eyes and rely only on logic, or trust what her eyes told her?
Irritated, Jiang Yan turned over.
After a while, she sat up from the bed. In the moonlight, she unzipped her backpack.
She was a little hungry. Yu Renwan had stuffed a roast chicken into her bag; though most of it had been shared with the other children, what remained was enough for a late-night snack.
Jiang Yan unwrapped the chicken from the outer layer of newspaper.
This roadside-style roast chicken was actually wrapped in real newspaper, not special oil-absorbing paper. The oily ink had run badly. Jiang Yan set the newspaper aside and bored, tore off a chicken wing to eat.
Left overnight, the roast chicken was a bit tough, but the flavor was excellent. Jiang Yan rather regretted not eating it sooner. Halfway through, her gaze drifted lazily to the newspaper.
It was an old issue from four years ago, not even from this city, but from a neighboring one.
[Three hikers fall to their deaths on Changrong Mountain. All bodies have now been recovered. In late spring, the public is urged to stay safe and take proper precautions when hiking.]
Jiang Yan glanced idly at the photos of the three deceased. The print was so smudged that only their outlines were visible, but one face remained relatively clear.
Jiang Yan’s gaze lingered on that photo for a long time.
At last, she allowed herself a smile.
Yu Renwan, as expected.
This newspaper had come from outside the sanatorium, and no one inside would pay it any attention; therefore, its information had to be true.
Now, it seemed, all conclusions would have to be overturned.
Even what was considered “certainly true” was false.