Erykah Phelps POV:
The medical examiner, a stern woman with tired eyes, peeled back the charred remnants of clothing. The air was thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faint, unsettling odor of decay. Arthur and Bilal stood by, their faces impassive. I hovered above, a silent scream trapped in my non-existent throat.
"Female, approximate age 25 to 30," the ME stated, her voice clinical. "Cause of death, massive internal trauma consistent with a high-energy explosive device, followed by thermal injuries." She paused, her brows furrowing. "Evidence suggests pre-mortem blunt force trauma to the head and torso. This victim was conscious and suffered before the blast."
My spectral form shivered. The memories, the pain, they were still so vivid. But that wasn't the worst part.
The ME's voice dropped, a hint of something resembling sympathy entering her tone. "There's something else, Detective Holmes." She pointed with a gloved hand. "The victim was pregnant. Approximately twelve weeks along."
The room fell silent. Even the hum of the ventilation system seemed to still. Bilal shifted uncomfortably. Arthur, for a fleeting moment, looked… stunned. His professional mask slipped, just a fraction.
My ghostly presence vibrated with a mix of shock and profound sadness. Pregnant. I had known, of course. That was why I was going to surprise him. But now, seeing it laid bare, hearing it spoken aloud, it twisted something inside me. My baby, gone too. A life that never had a chance.
"Pregnant?" Arthur repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "Are you sure?"
"The fetal tissue is clear, Detective," the ME confirmed, her gaze steady. "A developing human life."
Arthur ran a hand over his face. "Damn," he muttered. He looked at Bilal, then back at the body. "Alright. We need to find out who she is. And whoever did this… they're going to pay." He sounded angry, but it was a cold, detached anger, for the case, not for the woman on the table.
I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Pay? You think you want them to pay? You have no idea, Arthur. He was feeling a pang of collective human sympathy, not personal grief. It was infuriating. It was devastating.
Later, in the hallway, Bilal clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Rough one, huh? Pregnant victim, that always gets to you."
Arthur merely grunted. "It's a tragedy, sure. But we deal with tragedies every day, Bilal. It makes the job harder, but it doesn't change the facts. Just makes me want to catch the bastards more." He paused, a strange look on his face. "You know, Erykah would have been all over this. Crying for the poor victim, wanting justice." He shook his head. "She's probably still mad at me, though. Giving me the cold shoulder."
Cold shoulder? My spectral body vibrated with a silent, furious scream. I' m dead, Arthur! I' m lying on that table, and you think I'm giving you the silent treatment! The sheer obtuseness, the complete lack of connection, was unbearable. I wanted to shake him, to slap him, to scream the truth into his oblivious face. But I was a ghost, a silent observer, bound to him by some cruel, cosmic joke. My only desire was to be free of him, to escape this torturous tether.
Bilal sighed, giving Arthur a look I couldn't quite decipher. "You really think she's just being difficult, Arthur? About a text message? You two seemed pretty solid."
"Solid enough for her to block me, apparently," Arthur retorted, turning away. "Look, we'll deal with Erykah when I figure out where she's hiding. Right now, this Jane Doe is the priority. We need to find out who she is."
The detectives returned to the station, the grim task of identifying the victim commencing. Bilal was a tireless worker, sifting through missing persons reports, cross-referencing descriptions. Arthur, meanwhile, sat at his desk, staring blankly at his computer screen, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten beside his keyboard.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up, and a faint smile, a rare sight these days, touched his lips. "Hey, Ivy," he said, his voice instantly softer, warmer.
My ethereal form stiffened. Of course.
"Arthur! You're still at work? It's so late!" Ivy's voice, high-pitched and fluttering, was audible even to my ghostly ears. "Are you coming home soon? I'm all alone, and I heard another noise. I think the heater is making weird sounds again."
Arthur' s face softened further. He looked tired, but the weariness seemed to melt away when he spoke to her. "It's okay, Ivy. Just the heater, probably. I'll be home as soon as I can, alright? I promise."
"But what if it's not the heater?" Ivy whined. "What if it's a pipe bursting? Or... or a ghost? I read about a haunting in Chicago just yesterday!"
Arthur chuckled, a sound I hadn't heard directed at me in months. "No ghosts, Ivy. I'll check it out when I get there. Just try to relax. What are you doing?"
"Oh, just watching a movie," she said, her voice turning casual. "What's your big case about? The one keeping you so late? Don't tell me it's another gruesome murder."
Arthur hesitated, then spoke, a hint of pride in his tone. "Yeah, it's a Jane Doe. Found her in an old textile factory. Nasty business. But we're close to identifying her. She was pregnant."
My ghostly eyes widened. He was telling her. He had kept the pregnancy a secret from me, but he was sharing it with Ivy, casually, as if it were a detail from a TV show.
"Oh, that's just awful, Arthur," Ivy said, but there was a strange, performative quality to her sympathy. "Poor thing. Who would do something like that?"
"We'll find out," Arthur replied, his jaw tightening. "But don't worry about it, Ivy. I don't want you getting scared."
Scared? I thought. You think she's scared? She's enjoying this, Arthur. Every stolen moment, every fabricated crisis, every time you choose her over me. The contrast was a slap in the face. His patience, his concern, his gentle voice-all reserved for Ivy. For me, it had been impatience, accusations, and a cold hang-up. My phantom lips curled into a silent, bitter sneer as I watched him. The man I loved, the man who had just blocked me, had no idea he was talking about my death, to the woman who had helped orchestrate the slow, painful demise of our relationship.
