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!"