Chapter 29
Fushimi Shika had planned to refuse.
But she was simply offering too much.
Tamako's piggy wallet—round-bellied and bulging—gave her all the confidence in the world. Up front she slapped down 200,000 yen. At the current exchange rate that was a little over 14,000 yuan.
Yet even with his brain switched off, Fushimi knew the deal stank. If he never caught the killer, he'd be stuck with Tamako for life. If he did catch the killer, he'd rot in prison for the rest of his days.
He haggled anyway. "This case is way too tough. I'm not spending fifteen years of my life chasing one guy for 200,000 yen. How about this: we work six months. When the clock runs out—solved or not—the partnership dissolves... unless you renew."
Tamako did the math: 200,000 divided by six was barely over 33,000 a month. Even her family's housekeeper earned more. Cheap labor like this didn't co along every day, so she agreed on the spot.
Japan, mind you, not so gig-economy side hustle—33,000 yen a month was exploitation on a cosmic scale.
Both walked away convinced they'd robbed the other blind.
The piggy wallet's belly was now half-deflated, nothing left but a few coins rattling around.
Tamako counted what was left of her monthly allowance—precious little. Still, there wasn't much to spend money on at the academy. Since she'd finagled a day pass, she intended to drown her wounded soul in a towering tropical parfait at a dessert shop.
"Let's go, Xiao Lu! Destination—Yukijirushi Parlor!" She pumped a tiny fist.
"Stop giving people nicknas. And what's a Yukijirushi 'parlor'? I've got plans today."
Fushimi studied her up and down. She was in casual clothes—a white shirt under brown suspenders and jeans, a russet coat thrown on for warmth. Her round-toed shoes clicked cheerfully against the floor; she looked ready to sprint a marathon.
"Huh? Where are you going?" Tamako asked.
"Personal business." Fushimi took the fruit basket from her hands. "As you can see, I'm perfectly healthy. No escort needed... so let's split up. You do your thing; don't tail ."
Tamako's lips puffed in protest. She'd forked over 200,000 yen, and her hired partner wouldn't even accompany her for parfait therapy? Money tossed in a pond at least made a splash. Unless he coughed up a decent excuse, she wasn't letting him vanish.
"What are you really up to? 'Personal business' sounds shady. Don't tell you're pocketing my cash for a soapland binge."
She stuck to him like taffy, clutching the hem of his coat wherever he moved. He'd taken her money; he could hardly shove her away. Out of sight, out of mind—if she wanted to tag along, fine.
They boarded the tram. Outside, traditional Japanese houses slid past, cherry blossoms gone, green train cars rumbling softly.
Fushimi got off at South 1st Street Station in central Sapporo. Tamako followed one step behind. They slipped down a narrow lane, and Tamako fell silent when the old temple ca into view.
Ginkgo leaves spilled gold over the weathered wall. Fushimi stepped through the gate, rang the bell, tossed a coin, and bowed.
The abbot, a monk in his fifties, kept the family temple afloat with odd locksmith jobs. After a swarm of reporters forced him to close for a while, he'd only just reopened.
Learning Fushimi had co to pay respects, he escorted them to a small graveyard out back. On the way he noticed Tamako's shadow and raised an eyebrow.
"Isn't that Tamako-chan? Long ti no see."
"Ah—hello, Mr. Nagano."
Tamako flushed, caught off guard. She hadn't attended Kawai's funeral; not out of unwillingness, but because she couldn't face the black-and-white photo alone.
The cetery was tiny, a small shrine at one end. The abbot left them with a quiet gesture and disappeared inside.
Ginkgo branches rustled overhead. Tamako trailed Fushimi past rows of stones until they stopped at Nagano Kawai's.
No ceremony, no flowers, no eulogies—just two visitors on an ordinary afternoon eting a friend who was no longer there.
Fushimi set the fruit basket at the base of the stone, pressed his palms together, and closed his eyes.
Tamako's vision blurred. Her nose stung; she nearly cried.
Seriously? I bought you that fruit and you're using it as an offering? At least show so respect!
After a mont Fushimi opened his eyes. "Anything you want to say to her?"
"I... I don't know. I'm still angry."
"Angry?"
"Yeah. I thought we were best friends, but she kept sothing this huge from ..." Tamako sniffed, squinting hard. "Why? If she'd found the person who killed my brother, why didn't she tell ?"
All this ti she'd bottled it up, trying to look strong, pretending grief hadn't crushed her.
Fushimi hesitated, then said softly, "Sorry. This is the last question."
"What?"
"Kawai's last ssage. I just rembered—she asked to pass it on."
Tamako's eyes widened. A whisper from the past sliced through her defenses and shattered the mask she'd worn. Kawai had told her everything after all.
"How... how unfair... so sneaky..."
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She sobbed without volu.
Footsteps approached; Tamako wiped her face frantically. The abbot returned cradling a plush rabbit.
"Kawai said if anything ever happened to her, I should give this back to you." He held it out.
"What is it?" Fushimi asked.
The abbot's eyes softened with mory. "Kawai used to have nightmares. Tamako-chan gave her the rabbit and told her Officer Rabbit would keep the bad dreams away."
Tamako took the toy with trembling hands. The tiny police uniform was faded and patched; the cap on its head wasn't the original. Clearly Kawai had loved it, slept with it every night.
Sothing crinkled. Tamako turned the rabbit over and found a small tag taped to its back.
"Kawai & Tamako"
Tamako finally broke, wailing loud enough to shake the ginkgo leaves.
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