69novels Chapter 687 If you cause trouble again, I'll beat you up!
Chapter 687 If you cause trouble again, I'll beat you up!
Her voice trailed off at the end.
Lynn looked at her for a few seconds: "Do you think there's something in the room?"
“I don’t know.” Carmela took a soft breath. “Maybe there’s nothing there, or maybe there are some traces that I can’t understand but you can see. I was afraid of disturbing or damaging something, so I haven’t really looked into it. But the longer I wait, the more uneasy I feel.”
Lynn thought for a moment and nodded: "Okay."
Carmela's eyes lit up for a moment, but she quickly suppressed it: "Then I'll pick you up this afternoon?"
“No need,” Lynn said. “Just send me the address, and I’ll go there myself after the follow-up appointment.”
Are you sure you can?
"I only have a fracture, not that it's broken in two."
Jason casually added from the side, "Although it's not that far off."
Carmela glanced at Lynn, as if to make sure he wasn't just being sarcastic, before nodding slightly: "Okay. I'll send you the address and directions. The road there is a bit roundabout, the apartment building is old, and the hallway lights often break."
“That sounds like a perfect fit for New York,” Lynn said.
Carmela smiled slightly, a faint smile, but it eased some of the tension she had felt earlier: "Then I'll wait for you later."
After she finished speaking, she said goodbye to the two of them and turned to walk along the sidewalk towards the subway entrance. The wind blew her skirt, and the pre-dawn sunlight cast a long shadow over her. Lynn stood at the hospital entrance for a while before looking away.
Jason put his hands back in his jacket pockets and slowly asked, "'Any plans for tonight?'"
Lynn didn't even look at him: "Shut up."
“I didn’t say anything.” Jason followed him toward the parking area. “But the fact that she invited you to her house, to see her brother’s room, is such a New York development.”
"How's your investigation going?"
Jason's expression immediately softened, and he said in a low voice as they walked, "There's some information about those locations you asked me to investigate. Matteo has had three temporary workers in the past six months. The most recent one was at a night loading and unloading warehouse near Brooks Road. The registered name was real, but the contact number on the work badge was not in service. The conflict at the convenience store was ostensibly treated as disorderly conduct, but actually a section of the surveillance footage was removed. The person who handled it wasn't a resident officer in the area; it was a temporary replacement."
Who smoked it?
“It’s not a sure thing yet, but the trail is very clear.” Jason opened the passenger door. “Also, that broken ring mark you sent me, I had someone look through the old case archives, and it looks a lot like the corner symbol in a case from three years ago involving the distribution of underground mutant drugs. At the time, we thought it was just a middleman’s homemade mark and didn’t investigate further. Now it seems that might not be the case.”
Lynn got into the car, and when he raised his hand, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He frowned and fastened his seatbelt: "Where is Matteo himself?"
“No formal criminal record, no history of violence, and he’s not in the unregistered mutant database. People around him have a consistent opinion of him—he’s late, he gets into trouble, he’s stubborn, but he doesn’t seem like the type to deliberately cause big trouble.” Jason walked around to the driver’s seat and started the engine. “There is one interesting little incident, though. Last winter, a building on the north side of Harlem caught fire, and he rushed out with two kids through the back stairs, burning the back of his hand, but didn’t report it.”
Lynn glanced at him sideways.
“So I know what you’re thinking.” Jason turned the steering wheel, and the car slowly merged into the street. “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, more like he stepped on the edge of something and was pulled over by someone who was better at talking and more intimidating.”
Lynn didn't speak, only staring at the street scene rushing past the window. The glass curtain walls of Midtown Manhattan, the hurried commuters on the street, the white smoke rising from the hot dog stand, the person sitting on a folding stool playing the saxophone at the corner—everything seemed the same as usual. But something was hidden beneath this surface of normalcy, spreading silently, like the dark purple mycelium beneath Nevada's earth—quiet, yet tenacious.
The follow-up examination in the afternoon was faster than expected.
The chest X-ray results were acceptable; the lungs had stabilized. The dressing on the left arm wound was changed again. Dr. Burns stared at Lynn for a long time before finally coldly uttering, "Don't do anything stupid." When Lynn left the examination room, Carmela was no longer at the hospital; she had only sent him an address and a message on her phone.
"The doorbell downstairs is half broken. Message me when you get there. I'm going to buy something and will be right back."
The address was north of Harlem, near an old apartment complex. Lynn went back to his apartment, took a quick shower, changed into a darker coat for easier movement, left his gun at home, and only took his usual small flashlight, folding knife, and a pair of thin gloves. When he left, Gwen was sitting on the sofa flipping through a concert program. Hearing the noise, she looked up: "Where are you going tonight?"
"Meeting someone." Lynn picked up the car keys.
"Male and female?"
Lynn paused for a moment: "Gwen."
Gwen immediately gave her that "I knew something was wrong" look, and slammed the program booklet shut: "I was just asking. Are you bringing back donuts?"
"You already ate two this afternoon."
"Then half a dozen."
"Dream on."
“At least three.” Gwen waved her hand at him. “Also, don’t go out and fight again while you’re injured.”
Before closing the door, Lynn only replied, "I know."
The northern part of Harlem in the evening is in a completely different rhythm from Midtown Manhattan.
The sun hadn't completely set, a golden hue still lingering on the horizon, but the streets between the buildings had already sunk into shadow. Rows of old, brick-red apartment buildings stood side-by-side, fire escape ladders hanging precariously from their facades, their rust gleaming in the afterglow. The corner store lit its sign, its roller shutter half-open, several cases of soda piled outside. Someone sat on a folding chair by the roadside smoking, someone else leaned out of a second-floor window calling for their child to come home, and the muffled thuds of basketballs bouncing on the ground drifted in from afar, mingling with the loud Latin music blaring from someone's apartment.
Lynn parked his car on the side of the road and found a five-story old apartment building according to the address. The building entrance was a dark green old iron door, and the intercom next to the door was missing half of its buttons, with the remaining half of the number keys worn shiny from being used. Just as he took out his phone, the door clicked open from the inside.
Carmela stood in the doorway carrying two paper bags, as if she had just returned from the shop across the street. Today she was wearing a light brown short jacket over a black turtleneck top, and her hair was down, slightly disheveled by the wind.
“You thought of it before I did,” she said.
“There’s no traffic.” Lynn glanced at the bags in her hand. “Need any help?” “One of them is fine.” Carmela handed him the heavier bag. “It’s dinner inside, not explosives, so you don’t need to be so cautious.”
Lynn took the bag, feeling the warm lunchbox and a bottle of soda clink together inside. The two walked into the building side by side, and the unique smell of the old building immediately hit them—dampness, dust, the slightly sour smell of the damp paint in the corridor, and the aroma of stewed beans for someone's dinner.
"Is the elevator broken?" Lynn glanced at the darkened metal elevator door in the corner.
“It’s been broken for three months.” Carmela pushed open the fire door leading to the stairwell with her shoulder. “The landlord said he’d fix it when he has time. In this building, ‘when he has time’ is usually equivalent to the next life.”
The stairwell was indeed poorly lit, with only an old-fashioned wall lamp barely illuminating each floor, two of which flickered on and off. The handrails were cold, their paint peeling badly. Lynn followed Carmela, carrying a paper bag, his steps slow. By the time they reached the third floor, his breathing had noticeably become heavier. Carmela glanced back at him: "I told you you could come back another day."
"Not bad." Lynn raised his chin. "Continue."
"Pretending to be strong."
"Professional habits".
"This habit is best changed."
Despite saying that, she slowed her pace. When she reached the fourth floor, Carmela picked out an old, brass-colored key from her keychain and inserted it into the lock of the innermost apartment. The lock made a somewhat strained sound as it turned, as if the building itself was breathing wearily.
The door opened, and a faint smell of laundry detergent wafted out of the room, along with the scent of old wooden floors.
The apartment wasn't large; the entrance led directly into a long, narrow living room. The walls were painted a beige, but in some places, faint gray stains had appeared due to age. An old fabric sofa sat by the window, a handwoven rug draped over its back, its edges pilling. The coffee table was small, piled with several nursing textbooks, a glass bowl for miscellaneous items, and a bunch of small white daisies whose water had been changed. Two potted plants sat by the window; one was thriving, the other nearly dead. Several photos hung on the opposite wall—old family portraits and holiday photos. The kitchen was semi-open, with drained coffee cups and half-cut limes on the bar counter. The entire space, though small, was impeccably clean; even the shoe rack by the door was neatly arranged.
"Come in." Carmela closed the door and locked it. "It's a bit small."
"That's good." Lynn put the paper bag on the bar and glanced at the photos on the wall.
The one in the very center is a childhood photo of the siblings. Carmela is about twelve or thirteen years old, wearing a school uniform. Her face hasn't fully developed yet, and her lips are pursed tightly, but her hand is firmly holding the little boy next to her. The boy has curly hair, a dirty smile on his face, and is holding a cracked toy robot in his hand—it's Matteo.
“Back then we were still living in the Bronx.” Carmela noticed his gaze, went over and hung her coat behind the door. “My mom took the photo. She always said Matteo was like a squirrel that never stops moving, and it would be a miracle if one out of ten of his photos was clear.”
"Where is your mother?" Lynn asked.
Carmela paused, then softened her voice: "He passed away many years ago. He had lung disease, which dragged on for a long time, but he ultimately couldn't make it. I had just entered nursing school then, and Matteo was still in junior high."
Lynn didn't ask any further questions, and simply nodded.
Carmela took the lunchbox out of the paper bag and put it in the microwave to heat it up. The buzzing sound immediately filled the quiet of the living room. Lynn stood still, her gaze falling on a newer photograph next to her. In the photo, Carmela was wearing a nurse's uniform with a name tag around her neck, standing in front of the hospital Christmas tree. Matteo, who was next to her, had grown taller and had one arm around Carmela's shoulder, his head tilted sharply, a candy stick in his mouth. Carmela clearly had a "I'll hit you if you keep bothering me" expression on her face, but she didn't flinch.
“He liked taking pictures,” Carmela said with her back to him. “At least he used to. But he’s become less and less willing to have his picture taken.”
The microwave stopped with a "ding," and she took out the lunchbox and poured Lynn a glass of water: "Sit down for a while. The meal is simple: roast chicken, rice, and some stewed beans. You should be able to eat now, right?"
"Sure." Lynn sat down on the sofa, his chest tightening slightly as he did so, but he didn't show it, simply taking the water glass from him. "Do you usually live alone?"
“Recently,” Carmela said, setting the table. “Matto used to live in the innermost room. When he was still home, we would take turns cooking. Most of the time I would cook, and he would be responsible for making a mess of the kitchen.”
Can he cook?
“He knows a little. He always overcooks his fried eggs and adds too much salt to his pasta, but he loves to experiment.” Carmela’s eyes softened as she said this, but quickly returned to their usual expression. “Once he made paella on a whim, and the rice was as hard as bullets, but he still forced me to eat the whole plate.”
Lynn looked at her and said, "You should still eat it."
“Because he’ll keep standing there asking, ‘How is it? Isn’t it good?’ until you can’t not answer.” Carmela put her fork on the edge of the plate, chuckled softly, and then regained her composure. “Never mind, let’s eat first. We’ll look at the room later.”
The meal was simple, but delicious. The roast chicken had a subtle, well-balanced flavor of spices, the rice was cooked to the perfect texture, and the beans were stewed until very soft, infused with the sweetness of tomatoes and onions. Lynn ate slowly, and Carmela didn't keep a close eye on him like she did in the hospital, only glancing at him when he pulled his left arm too much. Outside the living room window, children were chasing each other downstairs, their high-pitched laughter coming and going. Across the street, they seemed to be watching a football game; short cheers could be heard through the wall. At one moment, the water pipes in the old apartment building vibrated slightly, like the whole building breathing.
Halfway through the meal, Carmela asked, "Did you bring your medication?"
Lynn looked up at her and said, "I brought it."
Eat after meals.
"You're not at work right now."
"so what?"
"So you're still controlling me."
Carmela tapped the table lightly with her fork: "It's a habit, you're welcome."
Lynn chuckled softly, looking down at himself.
After the meal, Carmela cleared the dishes to the sink, and the sound of running water filled the air. Lynn took out his medication from his backpack and swallowed the pills according to the label Carmela had written on. When Carmela dried her hands and turned around, her expression was a little more tense than when she was eating.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ll take you inside.”
Matteo's room was at the end of the corridor, and the door had always been closed. Carmela took out another key and opened the door. The first thing that wafted out was the typical smell of a young man's room—old clothes, shampoo, a slight dampness, and some cheap men's cologne with a hint of mint. The curtains were half-drawn, and the room wasn't very bright. Carmela turned on the light, and the warm yellow light from the ceiling lamp illuminated everything in the room.
The room wasn't large. A single bed stood against the wall, its dark gray sheets haphazardly made, and a crumpled hoodie lay beside the pillow. Near the window was an old desk, its surface scratched and worn. One side was piled with several car repair manuals and comics, while the other side was scattered with screwdrivers, disassembled headphone parts, and a few sticky notes. Two band posters and a basketball star poster adorned the wall, their edges curled up. The wardrobe door was ajar, revealing several jackets and work pants hanging inside. Under the desk lay a pair of badly worn sneakers, their laces haphazardly tucked away. A corner of an old storage box peeked out from under the bed. At first glance, the room seemed just messy, like any other twenty-year-old boy's room, but Lynn stopped as soon as he entered, his gaze slowly sweeping over the room without touching anything. (End of Chapter)