After the briefing at the police station, the officers’ faces grew grave as they listened to the autopsy report.
“The victim suffered extensive torture before death,” the medical examiner explained, clicking through graphic photos on the screen. “Multiple broken bones, systematic abuse.”
Due to the horrific state of my body, facial recognition was impossible.
The abandoned building wasn’t the primary crime scene, which significantly complicated the investigation.
Mark stood at the front of the room, his jaw clenched tight.
“Canvas the entire area,” he ordered his team. “Check every security camera within a five-mile radius. Someone must have seen something.”
“Please perform another detailed autopsy,” Mark told his colleague. “Check for any new findings, and rush the DNA analysis to the lab. I want to know who she is.”
With those instructions, he hurried out with his team.
My husband showed more concern for this anonymous corpse than he ever had for me.
I remembered last month, when I had given him my father’s necklace – the only thing I had left of my family.
“It protected my father for thirty years,” I had told Mark, clasping it around his neck. “Now it will protect you too.”
He had actually smiled then, one of his rare genuine smiles. For a moment, I thought I had finally reached his heart.
But then Emma visited the next day.
“Oh, that old thing?” she had sneered, fingering the pendant. “It looks so cheap, Mark. You deserve better.”
Before I could stop her, she had unclasped it and tossed it in the kitchen trash can.
I slapped her. Hard. The crack of palm against cheek was loud in our kitchen.
Mark’s reaction was instant and violent. He grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back.
“You dare touch Emma?” he had snarled, his face contorted with rage. “You should be grateful she even speaks to you, you worthless bitch!”
He dragged me to the basement, threw me down the stairs, and locked the door.
For two days, I sat in the dark. No food. No water. Just the sound of Emma’s laughter floating down from above.
Now, as he examined my body with gentle hands, he noted softly, “Such a tragic death. Her husband must be heartbroken.”
I couldn’t help but smile bitterly. My husband would probably celebrate my death, or perhaps only pretend to mourn for appearances.
Mark’s gloved hands traced the long scar on my back. Twenty-three inches of raised tissue, running from shoulder to hip.
That scar – I got it saving his life in a car accident two years ago.
We were driving home from a dinner party when a truck ran a red light. I had seen it coming before he did.
I didn’t think. I just acted. Unbuckled my seatbelt, pushed him out of the driver’s side door, took the impact myself.
But after I recovered, he could barely look at me during sex, saying the scar disgusted him. “Can’t you wear a shirt?” he would snap. “I don’t want to see that thing.”
Could he recognize me now, through this scar that he despised so much?
I held my breath, watching his face intently.
But he simply muttered, “Old injury. Not related to the murder.”
His voice was clinical, detached. Just another detail in his case file.
Suddenly, his assistant called out, “Detective, there’s paper in the victim’s stomach!”
Mark’s eyes widened as he took it. “Too degraded by stomach acid. Send it to forensics for analysis.”
Just then, a phone rang – Emma’s special ringtone.
Mark stripped off his gloves and rushed to the hallway, his voice instantly softening.
“Emma? What’s wrong, sweetheart? I’m at work.”
