Curt went rigid.
Of course he knew.
The reagent bottle was where it all started.
On the other side of the soundproof glass, one of the officers who had worked acid-attack cases before couldn't hold back:
"Look, there's fault on both sides here. Why keep going after Curt Baxter over this?"
"Exactly. Is the kidnapper just stalling for time? There's only an hour and a half left before he kills her!"
Inside, Curt's face had drained to something almost translucent.
Captain Carter frowned slightly and pressed his earpiece to relay a message.
"The Forensics Unit just traced the kidnapper's location. It's… Professor Baxter's residence."
"I've already dispatched the Police Task Force to rescue Miss Barnes. All you need to do is keep the kidnapper talking."
Curt exhaled hard, something in his chest finally unclenching.
But the next moment, his pupils contracted sharply.
Because the kidnapper had just produced the real decisive evidence.
On camera, a bloodstained scrap of dress fabric appeared.
Floral print. The stitching was clearly amateur but neat.
"This was left at Millie Sullivan's death scene."
"I checked. The killer left fingerprints and blood on it."
The kidnapper's voice was hoarse, interrupted by a weary, dry cough. He took a sip of water before continuing.
"Professor Baxter, you hid this in your home. Did it never occur to you that I'd find it?"
That was the first dress Curt ever made for me by hand. A gift for our wedding anniversary.
Ten years ago, I wore it to a dinner and never came home alive.
Curt said nothing. Slowly, he turned his face away.
The panic in his eyes was impossible to hide.
His hands rested on the table, all ten fingers trembling.
"Impossible."
A murmur so faint I could only hear it because I was pressed against his back.
His heartbeat slammed through the silent interrogation room.
Once. Twice. Again.
Fast and brutal, like a sledgehammer cracking against his ribs.
A flash tore through Curt's mind: a rainy night, ten years ago.
Bernice, drenched in blood, coming to find him.
Lightning illuminating her features, melted and corroded by sulfuric acid, like some helpless ghost.
"Professor Baxter, I killed someone…"
"Stop waiting for her. Your wife… she's not coming back. I didn't mean to, Professor… my face just—it hurts so much."
"Professor, I don't want to go to prison… Please."
Back then, he'd softened.
For the next half hour, Curt didn't move.
No matter how Captain Carter pressed him, he sat as if turned to stone, not saying a word.
I hovered above him, watching, a thousand thoughts flooding through me at once.
The first time we met, I was wearing a floral dress.
He was carrying a thick anatomy textbook and walked straight into me. Before I could even speak,
Curt said, perfectly deadpan: "A blunt-force collision like that can cause bruising and subcutaneous bleeding. I should take you to the clinic."
It wasn't until much later that I found out he'd planned the whole thing—spent a full week staking out the library, waiting for me, and even got a friend in the medical school to help, all to make sure there'd be a reason to see me again.
Curt was never a romantic person.
Spending his days with the dead made him quiet, hard to approach. People called him the dissection fanatic.
But only I knew.
After anatomy class, we'd sneak off to the alley behind campus for offal hot pot.
He couldn't handle spice, but he'd order the hellfire level without so much as flinching.
"Liking someone means you want to do the same things she does."
He could replicate my walk perfectly, every little habit.
He knew every bone in my body—length, width, curve—and he'd even built a little plastic skeleton figurine scaled exactly to me.
He hung it from his backpack and fiddled with it every day.
The day he proposed, I was in Westhaven State for an academic conference.
A serial killer was prowling the area—one who only targeted women traveling alone.
