After the briefing at the police station, the officers’ faces grew grave as they listened to the autopsy report.
“The victim suffered extensive torture before death,” the medical examiner explained, clicking through graphic photos on the screen. “Multiple broken bones, systematic abuse.”
Due to the horrific state of my body, facial recognition was impossible.
The abandoned building wasn’t the primary crime scene, which significantly complicated the investigation.
Mark stood at the front of the room, his jaw clenched tight.
“Canvas the entire area,” he ordered his team. “Check every security camera within a five-mile radius. Someone must have seen something.”
“Please perform another detailed autopsy,” Mark told his colleague. “Check for any new findings, and rush the DNA analysis to the lab. I want to know who she is.”
With those instructions, he hurried out with his team.
My husband showed more concern for this anonymous corpse than he ever had for me.
I remembered last month, when I had given him my father’s necklace – the only thing I had left of my family.
“It protected my father for thirty years,” I had told Mark, clasping it around his neck. “Now it will protect you too.”
He had actually smiled then, one of his rare genuine smiles. For a moment, I thought I had finally reached his heart.
But then Emma visited the next day.
“Oh, that old thing?” she had sneered, fingering the pendant. “It looks so cheap, Mark. You deserve better.”
Before I could stop her, she had unclasped it and tossed it in the kitchen trash can.
