Curt went rigid.

Of course he knew.

The reagent bottle was where it all started.

On the other side of the soundproof glass, one of the officers who had worked acid-attack cases before couldn't hold back:

"Look, there's fault on both sides here. Why keep going after Curt Baxter over this?"

"Exactly. Is the kidnapper just stalling for time? There's only an hour and a half left before he kills her!"

Inside, Curt's face had drained to something almost translucent.

Captain Carter frowned slightly and pressed his earpiece to relay a message.

"The Forensics Unit just traced the kidnapper's location. It's… Professor Baxter's residence."

"I've already dispatched the Police Task Force to rescue Miss Barnes. All you need to do is keep the kidnapper talking."

Curt exhaled hard, something in his chest finally unclenching.

But the next moment, his pupils contracted sharply.

Because the kidnapper had just produced the real decisive evidence.

On camera, a bloodstained scrap of dress fabric appeared.

Floral print. The stitching was clearly amateur but neat.

"This was left at Millie Sullivan's death scene."

"I checked. The killer left fingerprints and blood on it."

The kidnapper's voice was hoarse, interrupted by a weary, dry cough. He took a sip of water before continuing.

"Professor Baxter, you hid this in your home. Did it never occur to you that I'd find it?"

That was the first dress Curt ever made for me by hand. A gift for our wedding anniversary.

Ten years ago, I wore it to a dinner and never came home alive.

Curt said nothing. Slowly, he turned his face away.

The panic in his eyes was impossible to hide.

His hands rested on the table, all ten fingers trembling.

"Impossible."

A murmur so faint I could only hear it because I was pressed against his back.

His heartbeat slammed through the silent interrogation room.

Once. Twice. Again.

Fast and brutal, like a sledgehammer cracking against his ribs.

A flash tore through Curt's mind: a rainy night, ten years ago.

Bernice, drenched in blood, coming to find him.

Lightning illuminating her features, melted and corroded by sulfuric acid, like some helpless ghost.

"Professor Baxter, I killed someone…"

"Stop waiting for her. Your wife… she's not coming back. I didn't mean to, Professor… my face just—it hurts so much."

"Professor, I don't want to go to prison… Please."

Back then, he'd softened.

For the next half hour, Curt didn't move.

No matter how Captain Carter pressed him, he sat as if turned to stone, not saying a word.

I hovered above him, watching, a thousand thoughts flooding through me at once.

The first time we met, I was wearing a floral dress.

He was carrying a thick anatomy textbook and walked straight into me. Before I could even speak,

Curt said, perfectly deadpan: "A blunt-force collision like that can cause bruising and subcutaneous bleeding. I should take you to the clinic."

It wasn't until much later that I found out he'd planned the whole thing—spent a full week staking out the library, waiting for me, and even got a friend in the medical school to help, all to make sure there'd be a reason to see me again.

Curt was never a romantic person.

Spending his days with the dead made him quiet, hard to approach. People called him the dissection fanatic.

But only I knew.

After anatomy class, we'd sneak off to the alley behind campus for offal hot pot.

He couldn't handle spice, but he'd order the hellfire level without so much as flinching.

"Liking someone means you want to do the same things she does."

He could replicate my walk perfectly, every little habit.

He knew every bone in my body—length, width, curve—and he'd even built a little plastic skeleton figurine scaled exactly to me.

He hung it from his backpack and fiddled with it every day.

The day he proposed, I was in Westhaven State for an academic conference.

A serial killer was prowling the area—one who only targeted women traveling alone.

The third murder happened right after the seminar let out—the body found in the alley behind the venue.

Curt thought it was me. He came tearing through the crowd like something inside him had snapped loose.

We locked eyes across the police tape, and his went red in an instant.

"Millie... if you died, I wouldn't go on living."

"Let's get married."

I nodded through my tears.

So foolish then. Still believing love could last forever.

I stared at the new wedding ring on Curt's hand, turning it over and over in my mind, unable to understand.

How the moon could hang so bright and full, yet never shine for me alone.

After the wedding, Curt was appointed as a special-hire professor at Seabrook University.

Of his first batch of students, Bernice Barnes stood out from the start.

Her parents were divorced, her family had nothing, and she had nowhere to go during breaks. I felt sorry for her and let her stay with us.

As the days wore on, I began to realize something was wrong with her.

Expensive jewelry kept vanishing from the dressing room.

We had a housekeeper, but Bernice acted as though the woman didn't exist. She took pleasure in ordering me around instead.

If I refused, she'd throw a screaming fit:

"I have depression! You hear me? If anyone upsets me, I'll kill myself!"

"And when I do, it's on you—you and Professor Baxter both. That's blood on your hands. Is that how a teacher treats her students?"

Her gaze drifted past me and settled on Curt's face.

Not pleading. Triumphant.

A thief's eyes—someone who'd already claimed my home and was sizing up my husband.

After that, the "accidents" started.

She swapped the potted plants in the guest room for fresh-cut flowers.

The allergic reaction nearly killed her. She ended up in the hospital, missed her thesis defense entirely—then told everyone I'd done it on purpose to sabotage her graduation.

Walking down the stairs, she would suddenly collapse.

And she'd let everyone blame me for pushing her, for being cruel and vicious.

To help her finish her degree, I invited her to assist in the lab so she could earn extra credits.

She turned around and upended an entire bottle of sulfuric acid over me.

I screamed, thrashing across the floor as my body seized, and felt my baby leave me right there on the tile.

When Bernice heard the sirens, she poured what was left in the bottle over her own face.

Blood ran down her cheeks as the flesh bubbled and hissed, and she was still smiling.

"Millie, you only lost a baby. Me? I lost my whole face."

"So tell me—who do you think he'll feel sorry for?"

When I woke again, the hospital room was empty.

I lay there a long time before I finally signed the papers dropping the charges.

She was young, and she was mentally ill. I had no intention of pressing charges. I just never wanted to see her again.

But when I found my way to Bernice's ward, I heard her voice through the door—that syrupy, little-girl whine she saved for him.

"Professor Baxter, I only got hurt because of your wife, you know. So you have to look after me for the rest of my life, okay?"

And my husband didn't even pause.

"Of course I will. As long as you still trust me."

Of course Bernice trusted him. I was the one who didn't—not anymore, not ever again.

Just then, Captain Carter pushed the door open.

"Professor Baxter, no one else has been in or out of your house."

"But the kidnapper's signal traces back to the Baxter residence. Have you considered that Bernice might have staged the whole thing herself?"

At the mention of Bernice, even the most even-tempered old officer at the precinct darkened.

"Suicide threats every other day. Nobody can talk her down except Professor Baxter."

After Bernice moved into our home, it only got worse.

Some nights she'd show up at the master bedroom door clutching her blanket, begging Curt to coax her to sleep.

I'd told Curt she needed to see a doctor.

He cut me off, irritated.

"She's terrified of doctors. What do you want, to drive her to actually do it?"

"When did you lose every shred of compassion?"

I was five months pregnant when the doctor told me something might be wrong with the baby.

I planned to go back for a follow-up that weekend.

But outside the obstetrics ward, I ran straight into Curt—who was supposed to be on a business trip out of town.

He pressed his lips together and stepped back, the look of a man retreating into innocence.

When Bernice came out, he asked—right in front of me—"How's the baby?"

My eyes stung instantly, blurring with tears.

Before I could even open my mouth, Bernice dropped to her knees.

"Millie, I had no idea you were pregnant too…"

"I just didn't want to come to the checkup alone, so I asked the professor to come with me."

"I'm sorry, but there's really nothing between us! Please, just let me go…"

She threw herself against Curt, clinging to him as she wailed.

He frowned, and the look he turned on me was terrifyingly cold.

"Millie, maybe if you spent less time looking for trouble and more time cleaning up after yourself, we wouldn't be here."

"If Bernice hadn't tripped over your mess, we wouldn't even be at the hospital."

The mess he meant was the stroller and the little toys I'd bought for our baby.

I stood there for a long time, frozen, until the doctor called my number.

I walked in and laid the test results on the desk. The baby couldn't be saved.

"Get rid of it."

The baby was gone. Everything I'd prepared could be thrown away too.

I dragged myself home, light-headed and still bleeding through the pad they'd given me.

Curt was standing in the doorway. He paused, then said:

"You rushed out this morning and left jujube slices all over the sink. Clean it up."

"And there's hair on the floor. Sweep it."

"Bernice is coming over later to work on her thesis. She can't stand mess."

I braced myself against the sink, tears pouring down my face.

I never set foot in that house again.

I got rid of every dress, every short-sleeved top—anything that left skin bare. Long sleeves, high collars, day and night, drifting through the hours like something half-erased.

I think something in me broke too.

Half a month later, I received an apology from Curt. I put on my floral dress, brought the divorce papers, and went to meet him.

I wanted to give this marriage one last scrap of dignity.

What waited for me instead was my own death.

I came back to myself, hearing Curt's voice, absolute and unyielding.

"Impossible! Bernice isn't Millie. She wouldn't gamble with her own life!"

"Besides, I'm her husband. I can tell when she's afraid."

His voice cracked as he went on.

"Bernice is timid. She's carrying a child. If something happens to her, I won't go on living either."

"Captain Carter, I'm begging you. Find her."

"Don't worry. We've already dispatched officers to trace the shirt buyer. The Forensics Unit is working on the kidnapper's facial features as we speak."

"Before midnight, we'll have something. Guaranteed."

Right then, a cheer erupted from the Forensics Unit.

"Got it!"

Curt's head snapped up, eyes full of desperate hope.

"We've cracked the pixelation data. Our specialist is reconstructing the facial composite now."

Captain Carter stood and handed Curt a cup of water.

"Relax."

His tone was easy. His gaze was a blade.

Curt thanked him and took the cup without really seeing it.

Something flickered in Daniel's eyes. "Professor Baxter, do you know the kidnapper? You two share some similar habits."

The water in the cup lurched.

"No."

Curt lowered his head.

The next second, the specialist's video call connected to the big screen.

"The facial reconstruction is complete! The subject is—"

Curt Baxter's face filled the screen.