"What should I be worried about?" I asked Jian Yuche, cocking my head to the side.
"About anything. The investigation. The missing weapons. The fact that I'm sitting in your living room trying to figure out how you did it."
I looked at him, my expression neutral. "Should I be worried?"
"Most people would be."
"I'm not most people."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not."
There was something in his tone—something that suggested he'd stopped trying to fit me into a category he understood. The suspect box didn't work. The criminal box didn't work. I didn't fit anywhere, and that bothered him more than any missing evidence ever could.
Good.
Let him be bothered.
Xu Zhenlan moved again, this time refilling my water bottle without being asked. I took a sip, the cold liquid cutting through the salt and sugar coating my tongue. Yuche watched the interaction, his expression thoughtful.
"You're very comfortable here," he said.
"It's my home. Why wouldn't I be comfortable?"
