My husband's prized student tortured me to death. My husband—the forensic pathologist—falsified the autopsy report.
Then the killer, Bernice Barnes, married him. My soul never found rest.
Not until a serial killer on the run across the country kidnapped Bernice.
The video spread across the internet like wildfire.
On camera, Bernice was covered in blood, her fingers gone.
In the background, a mechanical voice, cold and flat:
"The March 18 Case. The killer is permitted no plea. Sentence: death by a thousand cuts."
"Next, the accomplice, Curt Baxter. You have three hours to turn yourself in. Otherwise... you can come piece your little darling back together yourself."
The entire internet erupted.
But Curt Baxter—my husband, special appointment professor of anatomy at Seabrook University, Seabrook City's chief forensic pathologist—was still in the kitchen, oblivious.
Making dinner for Bernice, who hadn't come home yet.
……
The table was already covered with dishes.
The renowned Professor Baxter, a man who once treated his hands as more precious than his own life, was standing there with a knife, shaving tofu into paper-thin chrysanthemum petals.
"Honey, come on—is this good enough for you or not?"
His voice message to Bernice was equal parts exasperation and indulgence.
"I didn't go with you to the prenatal checkup. I'll make it up to you with my life if I have to, okay?"
"Honey, answer me. Don't give me the silent treatment."
Nine o'clock at night, and he was reheating the dishes for the third time.
I drifted behind him, counting the minutes in silence.
It was the tenth year after my death.
In three more hours, Curt Baxter would die just like me.
Today was my death anniversary. It was also his wedding anniversary with Bernice.
A sharp ring cut through the apartment.
"Curt, something's happened! Your wife's in trouble!"
The color drained from his face. He sprinted to the study.
The computer sat on the desk, as if someone had taken control of it, looping that same mechanical voice:
"Turn yourself in, or your wife and child die."
He spun around instantly, and when he reached the entryway he stumbled hard enough to nearly fall.
He ran every red light on the way.
By nine thirty, Curt was strapped into the iron chair of the interrogation room.
In the dim room, the camera the killer had hacked blinked red.
"Professor Baxter. You're late."
The familiar mechanical voice. Curt's fists clenched, and he drew a long breath.
At Captain Carter's signal, he spoke.
"I'm Curt Baxter. Whatever you want, say it."
"Yes, I led the autopsy on the March 18 Case. But I guarantee you—on everything I am—there was no falsification."
Bernice's scream cut through for an instant, then was muffled into silence.
Curt shot to his feet, and the iron chair yanked him back down.
The kidnapper sat facing the camera, the mosaic blur over his face warping and twitching.
"Professor Baxter. Millie Sullivan was your wife. She was tortured, murdered, and cut to pieces, and you went out of your way to cover for her killer."
"Have you slept a single night these past ten years?"
"Ex-wife."
Curt adjusted his glasses, eyes dismissive.
"Millie Sullivan was paranoid, delusional, and impossible. We were done long before any of this."
"We'd already filed for divorce before the March 18 Case."
"Sure, we'd had some unpleasantness over Bernice before that, but that was all in the past."
He laced his fingers together and straightened his back.
"I'm a forensic pathologist. I do my job with integrity. I always have."
"Letting personal feelings compromise an autopsy is something I would never do and could never do."
His patience was visibly fraying. He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a warning:
"What, you want to avenge her? Then go find the real killer."
"Release Bernice. Right now. Or I promise you, I won't let this go."
The kidnapper laughed.
"Is that so?"
"Professor Baxter really thinks I have no evidence?"
"Evidence doesn't save anyone."
