"Chief, who is this Father Hook you are talking about?"

I was surprised for a moment, and cautiously asked about Harris.

Harris sat down in front of me, poured me a glass of water, and said nostalgically: "Daddy Hook, he was the rancher before you. That old man was stubborn, and we also had weird tempers, and everyone in the town was different."

You refused to interact with each other and lived alone in a ranch on the edge of the town. I didn’t expect that as the successor, you would be unexpectedly popular with everyone."

This name... shouldn't be a coincidence, right?

"Then Father Hook doesn't have many friends in town?" I continued to ask.

"That smelly old man doesn't have any friends, but he has a lot of enemies. Do you want to know?"

Harris slowly recalled what happened back then and told me the story of twenty years ago.

…………

My name is Harris and I am a police officer.

After graduating from the police academy, I held positions in several federal police departments, and after receiving many honors, I came to this small town by chance.

The reason is what my father said before he died.

I still remember that it was a gloomy and rainy day when I returned to the home I had been away from since I was a child in boarding school.

That bad old man was lying on the oak bed that was as old-fashioned as himself at home, and he struggled to open his mouth to talk to me.

I have never known much about this man. I only know that when he was young, he made a fortune from an unknown source and brought back all his quirks and incurable mental trauma.

He refused to have unnecessary conversations with others, abandoned social activities such as small talk, greetings, and visits, and concentrated on hiding in the study room at home, studying some dry and difficult historical books.

In my young memory, those books were not the ladder for his dreams, but the track for him to escape from reality. He was keen on all kinds of alarmist conspiracy theories, and he was also very concerned about the gossip of drunkards and village women in the countryside.

, and call these meaningless speculations historical research.

Later, after going through the systematic study of psychological theory in the police academy, and combined with the fragmentary discussions from family members, I can probably understand what he did.

The old man was originally just a hard worker who dropped out of school at a young age. He had lived in all kinds of lies fabricated by the trust group since he was a child, and listened to them cover up the massacre, suppression, and purge of workers. Therefore, his distrust of the mainstream media grew into a towering tree.

The subsequent unexpected fortune made him pursue his own value and try to use acquired learning to explain various congenital misfortunes. The final result was that he was unable to understand the significance of advanced theories based on his poor knowledge system and became a metaphysical folklore expert.

, and dived into the world of country stories.

That day, his eyes were full of clouds, and a kind of blank emotion covered his eyes. That kind of emotion may appear in a bankrupt securities businessman, a bad gambler who lost a bet, a radical political prisoner, and a person who believes in nihilism.

In the eyes of a typical university teacher, it cannot exist in the eyes of an emerging bourgeoisie like him who is ignorant, vulgar and isolated from the world.

"I have something I want to tell you." The old man's dry throat was like sandpaper. I can guess that when he was young, his voice must have been loud, rough, and careless, which is why his throat had so many vocal cords.

summary.

"Only you can inherit our family's mission."

This flattered me. The old man gave birth to three sons and two daughters. As soon as they reached school age, they were sent to boarding schools one after another to study rigid and rigid courses. Except for the eldest brother, who he called three years ago

When he came back to inherit the family business, the others had already left the family.

"You're very flattering." I didn't know how to respond to this strange father's compliment, so I could only express my disdain in the most polite tone.

The old man lying on the bed seemed to be irritated, his voice trembling like an angry lion.

"I'm not complimenting you!"

I became even more frightened and pretended to bow my head to be trained, but I was quickly analyzing his intentions in my mind.

If the old man is not complimenting me, then he must be implying something, and I have to keep listening.

The old man coughed for a while and said: "When I was young, I made some mistakes. I don't want to mention these things anymore."

He did not follow my thoughts and continued the topic just now, but took the initiative to talk about the past.

"I know the mistakes I made back then. No matter how many objective excuses I make for lack of ability and lack of opportunities, I can't get rid of my guilt. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. I've been repenting for it for decades."

This reminds me of a family legend.

That was the story of this newly emerging family with the old man at its core, a legend about how a poor miner made his fortune.

It is rumored that the old man killed his companions and occupied their shares while pioneering overseas, and then he built up such a big business. The evidence is that none of his companions left the desert island, and it was not heard that any of the partners had any

Descendants.

"Some things are never perfect, and this is also due to the uncertainty of fate." I used beautiful words to smooth things over. What I was thinking about was how to end this meaningless conversation and return to the original cold and rigid relationship between father and son.

That's the way I'm used to getting along.

But the old man was murmuring there, as if he had sunk into the account book of memory, digging up traces bit by bit: "When I found out, everything was irreversible. But the fate of our family needs someone to bear it. What happened back then,

It also needs to be settled. Go ahead, Harris, and go back to that island."

Go back? Are the old man’s former partners and descendants still on that island?

Then I understand.

This old man lived a wealthy life but lived like an ascetic because of his guilt about wealth. When he was old, this guilt finally defeated him, and even the historical research he relied on to escape could not save him.

He needs me to compensate, plead, and get close to the victims, even if it's deception, as long as it can give him a little relief from his guilt.

This is my job?

"What do you think I need to do?"

The old man's voice was very weak, with a hint of boredom.

"If I knew what needed to be done, wouldn't I do it myself? Go there for me and take whatever money you need."

"As commanded."

I tucked him in, stepped over the blabbering manuscripts covering the floor, and exited the cage-like study.

But I later learned that after I left, my father prayed all night in front of the statue of the Holy Spirit, murmuring words like "salvation," "curse," and "fate" over and over again.

But at that time, I had already brought enough wealth that I thought was enough to buy everything, and boarded a ship to a deserted island. At that time, I was young, arrogant, and because I was proud of being well-educated, I often had the prejudices of today's urbanites.
Chapter completed!