Chapter 1

My brother died in a plane crash while rushing home for my eighteenth birthday. His body was never found.

Every birthday after that, my parents dragged me to his memorial. They forced me to kneel in the dirt and beg for his forgiveness.

On the night of my eighteenth birthday, a man started following me in the shadows. I was terrified.

I sent a frantic text to my parents. My mother called back, but only to scream at me.

"You're just making up stories to avoid kneeling for your brother! You're a pathological liar! Why didn't you die instead of him?"

Before the man crushed my phone under his boot, I heard the mechanical click of her hanging up.

I was carved into pieces and scattered across various corners of the city.

My father, the lead forensic pathologist on the case, didn't even recognize me.

Later, my brother returned home in glory, bringing the woman he had eloped with eight years ago.

When they realized that the pile of rotting meat on the exam table was me, they all lost their minds.

1

My father was called into the station on an emergency. At that point, they still hadn't found all the pieces of me scattered across the city districts.

Outside, thunder crashed and a torrential downpour soaked the streets of Seattle.

The entire police force was out with K9 units, searching every alleyway.

Captain Vance entered the room, his uniform drenched. He carried a blood-stained evidence bag.

"This bag stayed dry, Arthur. Check if you can find any biological traces from the killer on it."

My father nodded. He opened the bag and revealed several small, uniform cubes of brownish-red flesh.

In an instant, my father's eyes turned bloodshot. He gasped for air, clearly struggling to suppress his rage.

"This animal has no humanity! These pieces were carved off while the victim was still alive!"

In eight years, this was the first time my father had ever shed a tear for me.

Captain Vance looked just as sick. He didn't dare to interrupt.

As more bags were recovered, my body was slowly pieced back together on the cold metal table.

A day and a night passed. My father stayed hunched over the remains, his eyes mapped with red veins.

A crimson, skinless silhouette finally took shape.

Captain Vance couldn't take it anymore. He ran to the corner and threw up.

"No skin? Did the killer do that to hide evidence?" he managed to ask.

"No," my father said, taking a deep breath. "It was torture. The victim was flayed alive. The killer wanted them to suffer."

"Looking at the state of these blood clots, the killer likely rubbed salt into the raw flesh after flaying. Then he carved the meat away, piece by piece."

"He watched the victim struggle for hours until they died from the pain. He enjoyed the process."

My father was the best forensic pathologist in the state. He described my death with perfect accuracy.

"Fucking bastard!" Vance cursed.

"The facial skin was removed and dissolved in acid. Identification by sight is impossible. Based on dental wear, I'd place the age between sixteen and twenty."

"The killer was careful, but he left out the right femur. There might have been a distinctive scar, a deformity, or a surgical mark on that bone that could identify her."

"He's cautious. But I can reconstruct the face using the skull. I just need time."

Vance patted my father's shoulder. He looked at the missing right leg and frowned.

"Arthur, doesn't this match the signature of the Storm Ripper from eight years ago?"

My father's hand trembled as he pulled off his latex gloves.

Eight years ago, my father's evidence cornered the Storm Ripper. The killer had supposedly sabotaged the plane my brother was on before dying in the crash himself.

My father always treated that case as a forbidden topic.

"If this killer is connected to him, Arthur, you need to warn your wife. Tell your family to stay inside. If the Ripper's habits haven't changed, Lyra will be his primary target."

At the mention of my name, my father's brow furrowed instinctively.

"Doesn't she deserve to die anyway?"

That one casual question left the entire room in a deathly silence.

Those words hurt ten thousand times more than the killer's blade.

I thought eight years of neglect and verbal abuse might have lessened his hatred. I was wrong. He truly wished for my death.

"Arthur!" Vance's voice dropped an octave. "What if the girl heard you say that?"

"I don't care what she thinks! If she hadn't whined for Logan to come home for her birthday, my son would have stayed safe. The Ripper would never have found him!"

My father panted, his eyes crimson like a cornered beast.

"My son was only eighteen! We couldn't even find a single bone to bury! His mother and I searched that crash site for eight years... and we found nothing!"

These words had been branded into my soul for nearly a decade. My parents reminded me every day that I was a murderer.

In my worst nightmares, I could still feel my father's hands around my throat at the funeral, screaming, "Why wasn't it you?"