While Philip kept ranting, Ariel just stared, eyes wide, like blinking might break her. But the tears came anyway.

I didn't say a word—just pulled her in and let her cry.

This was our reality now. Marriages that meant nothing.

Next morning, Edmond and Philip headed to the station. Since no one had ID'd us yet, Edmond couldn't start the autopsy. All he could do was collect DNA for comparison.

Oh, and it just happened to be Keyla's birthday.

Before their shift was even over, Philip slung an arm around Edmond.

"So, what'd you get Keyla this year? She always loves your gifts. Hook me up with some ideas?"

Ariel and I just watched them, stone-faced.

She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "We were fooled from the start."

I laughed too. Neither of us even knew Keyla's birthday was today.

Every year around this time, Edmond and Philip claimed they were slammed at work. We never questioned it.

Guess our trust made it easy to lie.

Before heading to Keyla's, they called us—habit, probably.

We didn't pick up. Philip cursed and chucked his phone. Edmond didn't even try. Just sent a text.

One word: [Overtime].

Couldn't even come up with a fresh excuse.

Since she was "injured," Keyla wheeled herself to the door—but botched it and crashed into something.

Edmond didn't flinch. Just bent down and scooped her up like it was nothing.

Even Philip blinked. So did I.

That was the kind of tenderness he gave his so-called "little sister," while I—his wife—never got close.

To Edmond, even our unborn baby came second to Keyla.

They went all out for Keyla's birthday. She threw a fake tantrum, downed too many drinks, and even though they were on duty, Edmond and Philip hovered around her like she was gonna break.

Tea, water, nonstop worrying.

Watching them fawn over her made my chest tighten. I glanced at Ariel.

"I need a comedy."

"Same."

Back when we were alive, dumb comedies were our go-to—blankets, snacks, full-on giggles.

But there's no laughing in the afterlife.

Edmond and Philip guarded her like she was made of glass. I wondered if they'd still be playing knight once the truth hit.

I remembered the day she took us—how she just stood there, watching us panic. She let us hope. Then crushed it.

Straight-up evil.

The next morning, maybe out of guilt, Edmond and Philip hit us up again after leaving Keyla's.

When we still didn't answer, Philip started looking thrown.

"Ariel's never stayed mad this long. Don't you think it's kinda extreme?"

For a sec, I thought—finally. Maybe his detective brain was kicking in. Maybe he'd realize we didn't just ghost them out of spite.

Then the phone rang.

Edmond's autopsy request got approved.

Boom—conversation over. They ditched the topic and bolted back to the station.

We followed.

After she killed us, Keyla stuffed our bodies into dirt-crusted sacks and tossed us in a sewage ditch. Rain took care of the evidence.

If some random scavenger hadn't caught a whiff, we might've stayed lost forever.

I wanted to see Edmond's reaction.

He pulled on his lab coat and gave a quiet, solemn nod to the corpses.

It was the first time I watched him work. First time I saw how he could talk to a corpse for hours but couldn't even say "I'm tired" to me. Like I was some kind of poison that made him shut down.

The deeper he got, the darker his face turned. Then he hit the wound on my abdomen and just... stopped.

"Who could be this heartless? Killing a pregnant woman? We'll get justice. I swear it."

So noble. So sure of himself. I wondered if he'd still be preaching justice once he found out his precious angel was the murderer.

Love doesn't follow logic. Neither does favoritism.

I didn't expect much. But when I looked again, Edmond was staring at my left ring finger.

I floated closer.

He was staring at the scar—the one he gave me after flipping out because I wore my ring around Keyla. He made me take it off.

His whole face shifted. He dropped everything and lunged for my skull, slammed his leg on the table, didn't even flinch.

He dug around like a man possessed, then froze. Scalpel clattered to the floor.

And that's when it hit me—besides being a forensic expert, Edmond was also a pro at facial reconstruction.

"Why does she look so much like Emma? Could it... no! No, it can't be!"