Open your eyes, you're dead C bought the book because of the temptation of the cover picture: under the dark background similar to the color of dried blood, a staircase leads to a vague door. The door is open, and there is a bright light in the crack of the door. It is thin and sharp, like a sharp blade. In addition, she also noticed the familiar, angular yellow font of the title. Obviously, this book is one of her favorite detective stories. A few years ago, she began to read detective novels from Agatha Christie's works, but later became tired of the stereotyped routine, which was nothing more than murder, investigation, and finally finding out the murderer. It seems that the detective story is a structure without exit, even if it is clean and tidy, it is unacceptable. She was teased by thin paper weaving characters, who were placed on the stage like puppets and bustled about under the control of the author's own supreme will. Strangely, the author is the only one who knows the order of crime and punishment from the beginning, but he wants to tell stories patiently and deliberately. She found it really boring. She did not know what kind of books she wanted, or what books she was looking for on the shelves of local libraries and bookstores. If asked to speak clearly, she may roll her eyes, pout and draw a circle to express her helplessness. In fact, she has been looking for flesh and blood characters and fuller criminal plots, as well as more complex motives and evidence that detectives will never consider. No, what she said was not blood and meat, not slaughter, nor nightmare. She had already watched enough of these things on TV. The detective story she wants is extraordinary and can't be seen through at a glance. As long as it can surface occasionally, it is enough to have a glimpse of the truth. At the same time, she also wants the detective story to touch itself, to pull her arm, so that she will not be sleepy. How can these be explained to librarians or bookstore salesmen? "I don't know." She muttered to herself, hesitated to read the book, and finally bought it. It has to be said that reading detective stories is a very pleasant thing, just like picking up sundries and putting them in a drawer. Step by step, chaos has become order, but sometimes excessive order is unbearable. So she borrowed a large stack of books from the local library, read them hungrily in the kitchen and subway, and finished reading two or three books a week. She also borrowed many detective stories from obscure writers, some of which were good, and some were completely unreadable