“It looks like bamboo splinters,” Luo Weiwei said, cold sweat dripping from her forehead.

I turned off the ultraviolet light, “Judging from the presence of these splinters, the victim must’ve forcefully pushed an object made of bamboo not long before his death. If you still don’t believe it, then you can check if the outer layer of the chopsticks peeled out.”

“So the husband really did kill his own mother!” Huang Xiaotao exclaimed in shock. “Oh my god, it’s horrible! What an appalling thing to do!”

“Even if you’re right about this,” argued Luo Weiwei indignantly, “the last one to die was still definitely the wife, because…”

“Because you think that people can't cut their heads off, right?” I interrupted.

I noticed that Luo Weiwei was somewhat hesitant in answering me. It seemed that she had begun to doubt her previous judgment.

At last, she stubbornly insisted on her own point of view.

“Of course it is impossible!” she said. “There are...