Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his left hand. It almost made him drop his phone, so he switched to his right. He thought the sudden, stinging pain would irritate him even further, but surprisingly, that wasn’t the case. Instead, he wondered why he was feeling irritated at all. That, and a sudden chill in the pit of his stomach. It was confusing.
—What is this? Anxiety? Am I getting anxious out of nowhere? Why?
Hang in there.
Suddenly, he thought he heard his father’s voice. What was he supposed to “hang in there” about? Was he being reminded not to tell Okuyama about the hole by accident? Or his important work?
“So you’ve purchased alcohol for them at times?” Okuyama asked from the phone. Mitsuhiro’s heart was racing for no apparent reason.
“Ah… Yes, at times.”
“Do you know exactly who you purchased it for?”
“No, I didn’t ask for their name.”
“Because some people saw you talking to someone at the soup kitchen, but we haven’t found anyone who said they spoke with you themselves as of yet. Everyone seen leaving with you doesn’t seem to have come back.”
His stomach sank again. Why? Was Okuyama implying that he was responsible for these homeless people disappearing?
The cut on his left hand throbbed. Mitsuhiro stared at his gauze-covered palm with disgust. This is all Okuyama’s fault. He’s making it start to hurt again. He knew that was silly, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was true.
Hang in there.
His father’s voice rang out again. But Mitsuhiro didn’t want to “hang in there” about anything at the moment. He wanted to end this conversation quickly and focus on what he was supposed to be doing.
“Um… From what you’ve told me, I don’t think I can be much help… I mean, first of all, who can say that was really me?”
But Okuyama wasn’t done talking.
“I’m saying that if someone’s been forced to sleep on the streets, it’s not very common for them to suddenly disappear unless they’ve checked into a support group. And this isn’t one or two people—we’re talking over ten people disappearing in a row. The only conclusion we can make is that they’ve been forcibly relocated, the way big corporations used to do decades ago, or that they were involved in some kind of incident.”
“That sounds right to me, but… I’m sorry, I have to take another work call…”
“Ah, yes, I apologize for taking your time. Are you at the office now?”
“No, I’m out on a call.”
Mitsuhiro frowned. Why did Okuyama want to know where he was? Was he trying to prolong the conversation?
“Well,” he quickly said before another question could come up, “thank you very much for informing me about Yoshikazu Hara. I’ll look around for any rumors about the people who haven’t returned, too.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate it.”
Okuyama’s stiff tone conveyed that he didn’t particularly appreciate this at all, but Mitsuhiro didn’t care. “Goodbye,” he said before hanging up.
He tried to make another call, but he was in such a state of turmoil that he couldn’t do it right away. He felt an indescribable anger, an inexplicable anxiety, an implacable impatience, and an irresistible urge to start crying. He didn’t know what was causing all these feelings, and if he didn’t get them out of his system, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but just sit there in a fog.
Mitsuhiro turned the AC vent toward his face and let the cool air blow on him. He thought that might calm him down a little, but it didn’t seem to work. His left hand continued to throb with pain, dragging his mind down further. At this rate, he’d have to drive around with one hand.
Hang in there.
Dad’s voice again. He wanted to cry out and ask what his father wanted him to do. With his injured hand, he couldn’t drive or even hold a convenience-store bag, let alone catch or restrain Yoshikazu Hara if push came to shove. His task was vital; how could this piece of his father’s grave be hindering him this much? It was absurd.
There was a heavy thud on the back of his seat.
“Calm down, Mitsuhiro. Stop obsessing over your hand. It doesn’t hurt at all, does it? And forget about that stupid phone call. Besides, didn’t you have someone you needed to call right now?”
His father, as usual, was right about everything. Mitsuhiro put his injured hand out of his mind. The pain disappeared instantly—see? It was never that serious to begin with. The turbulence in his heart calmed. He remembered now that he was doing the right thing, and he needed to stay strong.
Yes. This was the right thing to do. There was no way his work in the East Wing—the very foundation of Shimaoka’s massive project—could be wrong in any way. Maybe Okuyama was giving him shit about it, but he didn’t matter.
His composure completely regained, Mitsuhiro turned the AC vent toward the roof of the car and selected the number for Sota Araki of Tamai Construction from his call log.
“This is Araki.”
“Hello, this is Matsunaga from Shimaoka Headquarters. Sorry to keep calling you.”
“Not at all. How is it going?”
“Well, I actually have two things I’d like to discuss with you. First, I’d like to ask you about amulets… If you have something more effective, I guess? Something stronger?”
“Yes, we do have something, but the harvest offering will be substantial. The one we can prepare right away is for appeasing spirits, and it costs five hundred thousand yen.”
Mitsuhiro’s head spun. Between that and fixing the wallpaper, this was now the size of a small renovation project. But if he couldn’t stop that stain from reappearing, he might have to renovate the entire unit in the end.
“All right. I’ll figure out how to come up with that. Also, there’s something else I’d like to have disposed of.”
“Disposed of? An older shrine or something?”
“No, it’s…part of the stone from my father’s grave.”
“A gravestone?”