After My Murder, My Husband Hunted Them DownChapter 1
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."