The last time I disappeared, it was during the camping trip with Mark’s friends.
Emma had suggested we pick wild berries together, just us girls. “Let’s bond,” she’d said with that sweet smile of hers.
When we were alone deep in the woods, far from the others, she suddenly pushed me toward the river.
I couldn’t swim. She knew that. Mark had mentioned it at dinner once, and I’d seen the gleam in her eyes.
The water was freezing. Dark. I thrashed desperately, my lungs burning.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself to shore, my ankle twisted in the struggle.
I limped back to the campsite, soaking wet and shivering, only to find everyone gone.
They’d packed up and left without me.
When I finally made it home hours later, Mark was waiting with rage in his eyes.
“Where have you been?” he demanded. “Emma said you stormed off alone. Always causing trouble, always making scenes!”
I couldn’t defend myself. Could only watch Emma’s secret, triumphant smile.
Sarah helped me treat my injured ankle later that night, her gentle hands a stark contrast to Mark’s harsh words.
“He does love you,” she said softly, applying ointment to my bruises. “He just… he’s blind when it comes to Emma.”
But I knew better. Next to clever, beautiful Emma, I would never have Mark’s concern.
The scales of love always tipped toward the one he truly cared for.
And that person would never be me.
If I were still alive, I’d be making his favorite stomach medicine soup, delivering it to the police station during his long shifts.
But this time, I couldn’t appear with apologies as he expected.
After all, I was just a corpse now.
The forensics results came back quickly. The paper in my stomach was a registration form.
The killer had forced it down my throat with contempt: “Cooking classes for your husband? He’ll probably just eat Emma’s cooking anyway.”
“What is this place?” Mark frowned at the address.
The forensic expert checked his notes. “It’s a culinary school, specializing in therapeutic cooking and dietary health.”
When Mark and the other officers visited the school, the instructor was startled by their badges.
She examined the damaged form, checking the registration number against her records.
“A young woman registered a few days ago,” she explained. “Said her husband had chronic stomach problems. She wanted to learn to cook better for him, help him heal.”
“But she never showed up for class. Didn’t answer our confirmation calls either.”
The instructor pulled out a course syllabus. “She signed up for our ‘Healing Kitchen’ program. It focuses on digestive health and stomach care.”
Mark took the syllabus, a strange expression crossing his face. “Do you have security footage from that day?”
