Chapter 2

The phone on the counter rings again. It' s not Ethan' s slick, modern ringtone, but the tinny, generic one of the lab' s landline.

His assistant answers it.

"Forensics… Yes, he' s here. One moment."

He holds the phone out to Ethan, his hand shaking slightly.

"It' s for you, sir. A woman named… Clara? She says she' s Chloe Miller' s best friend. She' s been calling all day."

Clara. My best friend. My maid of honor. The only one who knew how much I was hurting.

Ethan takes the phone, his face hardening into a familiar mask of irritation. The discovery of our child is momentarily forgotten, shoved aside by this new annoyance.

"This is Dr. Cole."

Clara' s voice is a frantic buzz on the other end, but I know what she' s saying. "Where is Chloe? Why isn't she answering her phone? Is she with you?"

"I have no idea where my wife is," Ethan says, his voice dripping with ice. "And frankly, I don' t care. We' re separated. Now if you' ll excuse me, I have work to do."

He hangs up without waiting for a reply. He tosses the receiver back onto its cradle with a clatter.

He thinks I' ve just disappeared. Run off. He' s annoyed that my friend is bothering him about it.

I feel a strange pang of guilt. My death is causing him so much trouble.

"Let' s finish this," he says to his assistant, his tone sharp. "I have a birthday dinner to get to."

They work for another hour, trying to piece me together. It' s a hopeless task.

"There are parts missing," the assistant says, his brow furrowed in concentration. "A section of the thigh. The left foot."

I could tell them why. I could explain the sound of the churning grinder in the other room. But I' m just a silent observer to my own desecration.

The doors to the morgue swing open.

A woman walks in, bringing a wave of expensive perfume with her. Olivia Hayes.

She' s even more beautiful in person than in the society photos. Tall, elegant, with hair the color of spun gold and eyes as blue as a summer sky. She' s wearing a red dress that clings to her every curve. She looks completely out of place in this sterile, tiled room of death.

I' ve seen her before. Not just in pictures. But where? The memory is a fog, just out of reach.

Ethan' s entire demeanor changes. The cold professional vanishes, replaced by a man I barely recognize.

"Olivia. What are you doing here?" He sounds surprised, but pleased.

"I got tired of waiting," she says, her voice a low purr. She walks right up to him, seemingly unfazed by the gruesome scene on the table. She runs a manicured hand down his arm. "I brought you something. You' ve been working so hard."

She holds up a thermal container.

"Your favorite. From that little place in the city."

He smiles. A genuine, warm smile that used to be reserved for me, a long, long time ago.

"You didn' t have to do that."

"I wanted to," she says, her eyes locked on his. "You need to eat."

They are a perfect picture. The brilliant, handsome doctor and the glamorous, doting socialite. They look right together. Powerful. Beautiful. Unstoppable.

I was always plain Chloe. The quiet, steady pathologist who preferred books to parties. I could never compete with someone like Olivia. I see that now.

The assistant, flustered by her presence, scurries to clear a small table. Olivia sets down the container and opens it, the rich aroma of soup filling the cold air.

As she turns, her elbow bumps a tray of surgical instruments. They clatter to the floor.

"Oh, I' m so sorry!" the assistant stammers, bending down to pick them up.

For a single, unguarded moment, Olivia' s face twists. The charming smile vanishes, replaced by a flash of pure, undiluted rage. Her eyes narrow into slits, her lips curl back from her teeth in a snarl. It' s a look of such venomous fury that it makes the air feel cold again.

It' s gone as quickly as it came. She' s all smiles and apologies again.

"It' s fine, darling," she says to Ethan, touching his cheek. "No harm done."

But I saw it. I saw the monster behind the mask.

And in that flash of fury, the foggy memory sharpens into horrifying clarity.

I' m back in the dark room. The bag is off my head. A figure stands over me, silhouetted against the single bare bulb. The figure is holding a hammer.

The face leans down into the light. It' s Olivia.

She' s smiling. The same charming, beautiful smile she' s giving Ethan right now.

"He' s mine, Chloe," she whispered, her voice soft and sweet. "He was always meant to be mine. You were just a temporary inconvenience."

Then she raised the hammer.

I watch her in the morgue, ladling soup into a bowl for my husband. The man she made a widower. She laughs at something he says, a light, tinkling sound.

My death didn' t just make him free. It made him hers.

And a small, broken part of me, the part that still loves him beyond reason, whispers a single, terrible thought.

Maybe it' s for the best.

If my death is what it takes for him to be happy, then let him be happy.