“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.
I slapped her. Hard. The crack of palm against cheek was loud in our kitchen.
Mark’s reaction was instant and violent. He grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back.
“You dare touch Emma?” he had snarled, his face contorted with rage. “You should be grateful she even speaks to you, you worthless bitch!”
He dragged me to the basement, threw me down the stairs, and locked the door.
For two days, I sat in the dark. No food. No water. Just the sound of Emma’s laughter floating down from above.
Now, as he examined my body with gentle hands, he noted softly, “Such a tragic death. Her husband must be heartbroken.”
I couldn’t help but smile bitterly. My husband would probably celebrate my death, or perhaps only pretend to mourn for appearances.
Mark’s gloved hands traced the long scar on my back. Twenty-three inches of raised tissue, running from shoulder to hip.
That scar – I got it saving his life in a car accident two years ago.
We were driving home from a dinner party when a truck ran a red light. I had seen it coming before he did.
I didn’t think. I just acted. Unbuckled my seatbelt, pushed him out of the driver’s side door, took the impact myself.
But after I recovered, he could barely look at me during sex, saying the scar disgusted him. “Can’t you wear a shirt?” he would snap. “I don’t want to see that thing.”
Could he recognize me now, through this scar that he despised so much?
I held my breath, watching his face intently.
But he simply muttered, “Old injury. Not related to the murder.”
His voice was clinical, detached. Just another detail in his case file.
Suddenly, his assistant called out, “Detective, there’s paper in the victim’s stomach!”
Mark’s eyes widened as he took it. “Too degraded by stomach acid. Send it to forensics for analysis.”
Just then, a phone rang – Emma’s special ringtone.
Mark stripped off his gloves and rushed to the hallway, his voice instantly softening.
“Emma? What’s wrong, sweetheart? I’m at work.”
“Tomorrow’s treatment? Of course I’ll be there.”
Emma’s sweet voice carried through the phone: “I know you’re busy with this case. It’s okay if you can’t make it. And please don’t force Alice about the kidney donation. I understand if she doesn’t want to help.”
“I’d never choose a case over you,” Mark answered tenderly. “And don’t worry about Alice. I’ll tie her down and drag her to the hospital myself if I have to. She doesn’t get to choose whether to save your life.”
“You’re too kind,” Emma’s voice dripped with false concern. “I heard she’s claiming to be pregnant? Poor thing must be desperate for attention.”
“Alice isn’t pregnant,” Mark spat. “She’s just trying to avoid helping you. But I won’t let her get away with it.”
Emma sighed softly. “Still, be careful, okay? The killer’s still out there. I worry about everyone’s safety.”
“Just worry about yourself, sweetheart. I don’t care what happens to Alice as long as she doesn’t die before giving you that kidney.”
His casual cruelty twisted my ghostly heart.
They discussed my fate so callously, never knowing my corpse lay just feet away. Never realizing that the kidney Emma needed so desperately was now too destroyed to save her.
My death was orchestrated by Emma, but my husband’s blindness made it possible.
If only he knew the truth – that his precious Emma had arranged my murder, and he was examining his own wife’s body.
But even if he knew, would he care? Or would he just be angry that Emma could no longer get my kidney?
