"Dr. Davenport, you claim that you killed your boyfriend in self-defense because he was trying to kill you," Donald Livingston, the police officer, said with a subtly skeptical look in the interrogation room. "It's really hard to believe that."

Seeing me silent, he changed the subject. "Why don't you start by telling me how you and your boyfriend met?"

My name is Melissa Davenport, and I'm a psychiatrist. Psychiatry is a particularly nuanced field within clinical specialties. Most of my classmates advised me against it, suggesting that internal medicine is more appealing and that obstetrics and gynecology are better options than this even though they are a bit more demanding.

However, I can work as a psychiatrist at a top-tier hospital with just a bachelor's degree, without needing a master's. Besides, the salary is much higher compared to my classmates who are still pursuing their graduate studies.

My family isn't wealthy, so psychiatry is the most suitable option for me.

It was at the hospital that I met my boyfriend, Zack Berger.

It was my second month on the job when the director finally allowed me to see patients independently.

"Dr. Davenport, do you know why the chairs in this consultation room are always against the wall?" the director, Dale Donovan, asked.

I didn't understand the director's point, so Mr. Donovan chuckled and said, "Never turn your back on a patient. You never know if the patient you're seeing is dangerous, even if he has a mild condition. Here, safety comes first."

Later, I knew that Mr. Donovan was telling the truth. The first patient I saw was a young girl in her early twenties. She looked delicate and claimed to be an illegitimate child of a wealthy family that would eventually take her in and bring her home.

When I was writing the medical record with my head down, the girl suddenly and without warning poured water from her water bottle all over me!

As I heard the girl's hysterical laughter and my mind went blank, a tall figure in a white coat stood in front of me, and I snapped back to reality.

That was how I first met Zack. He embodied everything I had ever imagined in a partner. He was refined, gentle, and handsome, looking exceptionally good in a white coat.

"Be especially careful when seeing patients. What if that bottle had been filled with hot water?" said Zack, looking a bit disheveled from the wet clothes, as he handed me a tissue.

After that incident, he had taken great care of me. It was natural for the two of us to be together. He even teased that because of his profession, he hadn't had much experience in relationships, even though he was almost 30.

"So, before he tried to kill you, you and Zack had a good relationship?" Mr. Livingston asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

I nodded. "Yes, very good. I was infatuated with him."

"Then how did you realize that something was wrong with him?" asked Mr. Livingston.

I paused for a moment, and answered with a wry smile, "Officer, I know it's hard to believe, but this was actually something a patient of mine told me."

Mr. Livingston raised an eyebrow. "A mentally ill person?"

The patient was a 14-year-old boy named Timothy Norris, who attended the junior high school in our city. His mother was very anxious when she brought him in.

Timothy appeared expressionless, staring at the ground and avoiding eye contact. His mother was extremely worried and said, "Doctor, something is wrong with my son. He's in the third year of junior high now, and suddenly he's like this!"

Such situations were not uncommon, so I offered some comfort and began to inquire about his condition. "When did he start showing these symptoms?"

"Since September last year, after school started, the teacher told us Timothy had become less talkative and had fought with his dorm mates. We had no choice but to bring him home and hire a tutor.

"Six months later, he finally improved a bit. But as soon as he went back to school, he... My son used to be a good kid who never caused trouble! If it weren't for..."

"If it weren't for what?" I pressed.

Before his mother could respond, Timothy looked up, staring at the white wall beside him, and said in a low voice, "The woman in the red dress always follows me."

His mother's face turned pale. It was bright and sunny outside, but I felt a shiver.

Timothy continued to fix his gaze on the white wall. I asked cautiously, "What... what does she look like?"

"In a red dress, right there on the white wall," Timothy said. "She tells me to 'go die.'"

I was deeply concerned. Although Timothy was still young, he had already begun showing symptoms of auditory and visual hallucinations. Without treatment, his condition could worsen.

Timothy's mother clearly couldn't accept that her child, so young, would need to stay in a psychiatric hospital. "What if something happens to him in the ward? Can't you just prescribe some medication for him to take at home? Doctor, please, think of a solution. He still has his high school entrance exams to prepare for!"

"I understand your concerns, but both you and his father have jobs. What if his condition changes and you're not there? Hospitalization is the best option. We are doing this for Timothy's sake." I continued to persuade her.

"No! Absolutely not! If he stays with those crazy people, he'll be driven mad even if he's not already! With the hospitalization record, how will he ever find a job in the future?"

Her voice grew louder. "I think you're just not up to the task! You're just trying to make money off us!"

She stood up angrily, dragging Timothy towards the door. "I knew someone as young as you wouldn't have much experience. If I had known that waiting so long for an appointment would lead me to a young doctor like you, I wouldn't have come!"

I also became anxious. Auditory hallucinations were very dangerous, and given Timothy's state when he entered the consultation room, he might take self-harming actions. If that happened, it would be too late to intervene!

Fortunately, Zack helped me at that crucial moment.

He calmed down Timothy's mother, explaining the safety of hospitalization and assuring her that the hospital would maintain patient confidentiality. I sighed in relief and nodded my thanks to Zack.

Timothy suddenly asked, "Are you in a relationship?" I was stunned, but Zack admitted it. I didn't think much of it at the time.

Timothy completed the admission procedures. For every patient admitted, we would inquire about their condition and write a detailed medical record.

Without his mother present, I could clearly see Timothy relax a lot.

Sitting across from him, I asked carefully, "Timothy, besides what you told me during the day, you said you can hear others talking. Do you remember anything else?"

The boy didn't answer my question but instead gave a strange smile. "Doctor, did you know that your boyfriend is a murderer?"

"Why? Did you hear that?"

Timothy shook his head. "He told me himself. Doctor, you need to be careful."

"He said Zack told him this?" Mr. Livingston suddenly laughed. "Dr. Davenport, I'm asking you questions, not requesting a horror story."

I smiled wryly. "I told you wouldn't believe me. I didn't take Timothy's words seriously at first, but then I noticed several stray cats suddenly went missing from the hospital."

"Cats?"

"First, the orange cat I often fed disappeared, followed by two small white cats," I answered solemnly. "Some patients are asked to do morning exercises every day, and one of them found bloodstains outside the exercise area.

"Mr. Livingston, severely ill patients cannot leave their rooms on their own. If a mild patient is killing cats, it indicates they are good at hiding their symptoms from others. If they are deemed recovered and leave the hospital, you know how serious this could be."

Mr. Livingston looked somewhat surprised.

"This kind of incident at the hospital is concerning. To avoid panic, the director advised me not to make it public or inform others."

Mr. Livingston shrugged. "This is understandable."

I was very concerned about this, so I investigated a little.

The morning exercise started at 7:30 am. Our shift began at 8:00 am, and there were security guards patrolling the hospital on bikes from 10:00 pm to 2:00 am. Afterward, they returned to the security booth.

So I scheduled the investigation between 3 am and 5 am before sunrise. Whenever I was on duty during that time, I'd set an alarm to go for ward rounds and sometimes go out to get some fresh air.

Recalling that night, I shivered uncontrollably and took several deep breaths.

"Relax, Dr. Davenport. Don't be nervous." Mr. Livingston noticed my discomfort and his voice softened. He even went out to get me a glass of water. I forced a smile, took a sip, and my mood steadied a bit.

The hospital was unusually quiet at night. The light from the Red Cross emblem cut through the darkness, and the shadows of trees danced across the road. After completing my rounds, I walked out of the ward building and instantly regretted it. Despite the streetlights dotting every path, their faint glow did little to soothe my discomfort.

As I clutched my phone tightly and walked slowly toward the corner where the stray cats liked to gather, a sudden cat scream pierced the night. The sharp cry was particularly eerie in the dead of night. I was so scared that my knees went weak, and I almost threw my phone away.

Then it occurred to me that the person who had been tormenting the cats might be right ahead!

"Mr. Livingston, you know that some patients are not held responsible for their actions, even if our diagnosis has been very careful. At that time, I didn't dare to take the risk. I feared that if I rushed in, that person might attack me..."

My hands trembled again, and I had to take another sip of water.

"It was too quiet around. I couldn't run, so I locked my phone and crouched in the bushes, trying to stay as silent as possible."

The evening breeze was cool. I clutched my white coat tightly, trying to wrap myself up. The cat screams ahead grew more agonized, and my legs and feet were numb, but I didn't dare to make a sound.

I began to regret why I had come here alone so late at night.

I covered my mouth, afraid of making any noise and drawing that person's attention.

The cat screams gradually faded, and the surroundings returned to quiet.

But I didn't dare to move at all.

I heard rustling sounds ahead. I crouched there, not daring to move and not caring if the ground was dirty or if there were insects, just hoping that the person would leave soon.

"I saw the person's shoes through the gap in the bushes. They were the same ones I had given to Zack."

"Many people might wear shoes of the same style," said Mr. Donovan.

I shook my head. "At first, I told myself that to comfort myself."

The next morning, shortly after the bloodstains were discovered, I brought Zack to the scene. He appeared surprised and then frowned, saying, "Who could do something so cruel? I remember, Mel, you used to feed those cats, right?"

At first, I really wanted to believe him, but I noticed scratches on his hands. When I asked him about them, he said he had been to a friend's cat café in the evening and accidentally got scratched while helping to care for the cats.

I didn't know Zack's friends well because, since we started dating, I had only met the people he was close to at the hospital and none of his other friends. Given that we had only been dating for two or three months, it felt too soon to push for meeting his friends.

But this situation was different, so I couldn't help but ask, "Your friend owns a cat café? Can I visit it?"

"It's not convenient right now. How about I take you next time?"

Even then, I still wanted to trust Zack. To be sure, I went to the IT Department.

Many doors in the hospital required a key card to get in, especially at night. Without a key card, one couldn't access the inpatient area. That was why I initially suspected that someone inside the hospital killed the cats.

At noon, I went to see Bella Chambers at the IT Department. She joined the hospital around the same time I did, and we got along well. I came up with an excuse, saying I had missed several of the director's calls the night before and was worried that he might have come to the ward personally.

Bella didn't ask further and retrieved the card swipe records from the previous night.

"Mel, isn't this your boyfriend?" Bella pointed at the screen. "You claimed you were afraid of being scolded by your director, but the real reason you're here is to show off your boyfriend, isn't it? But why was he here so late at night?"

"Last night, I suddenly had a headache, and he brought me some medicine. That's why I missed the director's calls." I fibbed. "Please don't tell anyone."

Bella had a knowing look on her face.

"Can you imagine, Zack, who usually accompanies me to feed the cats, is actually the one who killed them?"

"Dr. Davenport, this does suggest that your boyfriend might have some issues, but why would he want to kill you? Animal cruelty and murder are two different things."

"Do you remember the boy I told you about? Timothy lost control when Zack came for his rounds."

I didn't know how to face Zack. Every time I looked into his eyes, I thought about that night's horrifying cat screams. I called an animal rescue organization and had the cats taken away.

Just when I thought everything was over, something happened to Timothy.

We did rounds every day, but since we were responsible for different patients, Zack and I were not in the same treatment group, so our rounds naturally didn't overlap. Only during the director's monthly grand rounds did we all gather together.

That was when Timothy lost control.

In fact, Timothy's condition had been under control, and he had begun to tell me about what happened to him.

After he entered the third year of junior high school, he and his classmates were reassigned to new classes. He was placed in an honors class made up of the top students. He was introverted and had trouble adjusting to a new class and dormitory, so his grades dropped.

Shortly after the start of the school year, a girl in his class jumped out of the classroom window due to too much pressure.

"I was scared, not because of her jumping, but because my grades would drop even more. My mom would scold me, and I really didn't want to continue studying."

After telling me this, Timothy gave a shy smile.

That day during rounds, I had planned to discuss Timothy's discharge with the director.

But as soon as Timothy saw Zack, he screamed. He pointed at Zack and shouted frantically, "Murderer, he's a murderer! He told me to die, it's him—"

His screams deeply affected the other patients in the ward. The patient in the next bed started banging on his bed, and patients waiting for rounds in the corridor ran over to see what was happening.

The ward was immediately in chaos.

I quickly went to calm Timothy down, but inadvertently, I caught a glimpse of Zack's expression. I had never seen him with such a look—cold and menacing.

"With the previous cat abuse, Mr. Livingston, wouldn't you think more about it?" I covered my face and continued with difficulty, "Timothy's discharge was suspended because of this chaos, and Zack, Zack, he…"

I couldn't continue. Mr. Livingston took out a document and asked, "Did you write this anonymous report?"

"Yes, because I found out Zack prescribed other medications for Timothy under my name. I checked the medical records of his former patients in the system and found no records after their last discharge."

"Doesn't that suggest his medical skills are impressive?"

"No!" I clutched my clothes tightly. "Mental illness can't be cured, but these patients never came back for medication! I called and said it was for follow-up, but their families told me those patients had all committed suicide!"