It was already late at night when the convoy turned through the gates of the Jiang family villa.
The fountain was still splashing, and the lights beneath the porch were dazzlingly bright.
Jiang Yanchu stood on the steps without even a coat on, his hair blown into a mess by the night wind. He rushed over before the car had fully stopped.
The moment he pulled open the door, he saw how Jiang Xun had curled up in the seat-his whole body huddled into a tiny ball, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his shoulders slumped, the bones of his spine tracing a thin curve beneath his T-shirt.
Everything Jiang Yanchu had been about to say caught in his throat. He could not get out a single word.
He stood frozen, watching helplessly as that thin figure went around him, headed straight upstairs, and disappeared around the bend in the staircase.
Jiang Yanchu turned to Jiang Huaixiao, who was getting out of the Land Rover.
"Xiao Xun... what happened to him?"
Jiang Huaixiao did not answer. He stared toward the stairs, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Hearing the commotion, Wang Ma hurried out of the kitchen. After looking around and noticing that neither of the two Jiang brothers looked well, she silently retreated into the kitchen.
Old Li, the cook, lowered his voice and asked, "The young master's back?"
Wang Ma nodded, untied her apron, and hung it on a hook. She sighed. "Take that chicken out of the fridge to thaw. We'll start stewing it first thing tomorrow."
But the next day, the chicken soup was brought back down untouched.
Wang Ma stood in the kitchen, looking at the bowl of chicken soup with a layer of fat congealed on top. Several more pimples