Chapter 3

Elia Carpenter POV:

The final autopsy report was read aloud in the sterile, white-tiled room.

"Jane Doe, female, estimated age twenty-five to thirty. Cause of death, massive trauma from explosive device. The detonation was instantaneous."

The medical examiner paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "Evidence of pre-mortem contusions on the wrists and ankles, consistent with being bound. Ligature marks on the neck suggest a period of strangulation prior to death, though not the fatal injury."

Every clinical word painted a picture of my final, terrified hours.

"Furthermore," the examiner said, his voice softening slightly, "the victim was approximately eight weeks pregnant at the time of death."

A heavy silence descended upon the room. The detectives, the lab technicians, even Arthur-they all stood frozen, the weight of the words settling over them.

My own spectral form shuddered. Eight weeks. I hadn' t known. A tiny, secret life had been growing inside me, a life I never got the chance to cherish or protect. A life Arthur would never have known he' d created, or lost.

A tear, cold and insubstantial, slid down my ghostly cheek. It wasn't for me. It was for the baby. My baby. We had died together, nameless and unloved by the one person who should have moved heaven and earth for us.

Arthur broke the silence. He shook his head, a flicker of something that looked like pity in his eyes. "God, that' s brutal. To a pregnant woman. What kind of monster does this?"

He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "We need to find this son of a bitch. I want to be on the team that brings him in. Personally."

I wanted to laugh. A hollow, broken sound. Of course. The great Arthur Thompson, champion of the nameless, pregnant victim. He would hunt down my killer with a righteous fury he could never spare for me in life.

Would he be so righteous, I wondered, when he finally discovered the Jane Doe he was championing was the woman he' d so coldly dismissed? Would he feel guilt? Or just annoyance that my death had become an inconvenient stain on his otherwise perfect life?

Later, Arthur and Kadin stood outside in the crisp night air, the smoke from their cigarettes curling into the darkness.

"You need to go home, Arthur," Kadin said, his voice laced with concern. "And you need to call Elia. This whole case… it should be a wake-up call. Life is short."

Arthur took a long drag from his cigarette, the embers glowing in the dark. "Elia isn' t going anywhere. She' ll be sitting at home, waiting for me to apologize for whatever crime she' s invented this week. I sent her a text telling her we' re done. She knows."

I' m not at home, Arthur, I thought, the words a silent scream in the void. I' m here. What' s left of me is on a steel table a hundred feet away from you.

I no longer cared if he felt remorse. The hope for that had turned to dust. All I wanted now was to be free of him. To drift away into whatever came next and leave the memory of Arthur Thompson behind forever.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and the hard lines of his face instantly softened. It was a video call.

Genesis Bentley' s perfect face filled the screen.

"Arthur, darling," she pouted. "You missed our dinner reservation. I' ve been waiting."

He managed a tired smile, the one reserved only for her. "I' m sorry, Gen. Something came up at work. A bad one."

"Worse than my foundation crisis?" she asked, a playful glint in her eye.

"Much worse," he said, his voice gentle. He was shielding her from the ugly details, protecting her innocence in a way he had never bothered to protect my feelings. "Don' t worry about it. I' ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise."

The hypocrisy was suffocating. He could move mountains for her, but for me, he couldn' t even move past his own arrogance.

The investigation into Jane Doe' s murder stalled. Without an identity, there were no leads. Days turned into a week. Frustrated, Arthur was the one who suggested they release a description of the victim to the media.

"Twenty-five to thirty years old, five-foot-six, brown hair, brown eyes," the news anchor reported over a generic silhouette. "The victim was wearing the remnants of a blue silk blouse and silver hoop earrings."

My earrings. My blouse.

The phone on Arthur' s desk rang just as the broadcast ended. He picked it up, his attention still on the paperwork in front of him.

"Thompson."

I heard the voice on the other end, thin and reedy with panic, and my non-existent heart seized.

"Mr. Thompson… Arthur… it' s Richard Carpenter. Elia' s father."

I gasped, a soundless, desperate cry. Dad.

"I' m sorry to bother you at work," my father stammered, his voice cracking. "But we can' t reach Elia. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. We haven' t heard from her in over a week. She… she matches the description on the news. Please, Arthur. Tell me it' s not her."