He hung up on me while the killer's knife plunged into my body.
Seventeen seconds. That was our final call after seven years of marriage.
He was at the hospital with my "depressed" stepsister, convinced I was just being dramatic again. He didn't even let me finish.
I died that rainy night, taking a secret with me he'll never know.
Three days later, my husband—the city's chief medical examiner—caught a brutal case: female victim, face destroyed by acid.
He worked the autopsy with his usual precision. Methodical. Clinical. Until the facial reconstruction software completed its rendering.
When he recognized my face on that screen, blood exploded from his mouth.
He hit the floor hard.
