When it was all over, he received another call, clutching his heart with relief.

The caller's tone was mocking.

"You lived up to your reputation, Dr. Kinsey. Your precious one is safe now, thank you."

The next day, my body was found. A crowd gathered, and when Jacob appeared, they all turned to look.

His 6'1" frame, the blue surgical mask on his high-bridged nose, commanded attention.

People made way for him as if it were his first time there.

He reached out and handled my body. "She looks young, what a pity."

His tone was casual, but his trembling arm betrayed his unease.

Perhaps he found the body too familiar, reminiscent of someone he knew.

His brows furrowed, and he suddenly grabbed my ankle.

There was a small, faded scar on my ankle from when Jacob had accidentally cut me while fighting over a toy as kids.

The ankle was covered in mud, and he wiped it but didn’t clean it thoroughly.

If he had wiped a bit more, he would have seen the scar and realized this person was me.

"What's wrong?" his assistant asked.

Jacob snapped out of his daze and let go of the ankle.

"Nothing, just checking."

He missed it, as he had missed before.

The captain's voice called from a distance, laced with resentment.

"No word from Gwynne, she sure has grown capable, taking a leave and not even sending a message."

Everyone glanced at Jacob, but he kept his head down, focused on his work, as if the name Gwynne was that of a stranger.

Jacob calmly described the body's condition.

"The victim suffered violence, multiple fractures, numerous stab wounds to the abdomen, and the head is missing.

Fingerprints have been burnt, post-mortem injuries. This isn't the primary crime scene. We'll know more after the autopsy."

Everyone exchanged looks but remained silent.

I was placed in a body bag and soon lay on the autopsy table.

The usually composed Jacob's hands trembled as he held the scalpel.

He had to press his wrist hard to steady himself, taking several deep breaths.

My soul watched him intently.

The last time I saw him like this was when he dissected his own mother.

A week before the wedding, I was suddenly overwhelmed with nausea and vomiting, with a dull ache in my abdomen.

I called Jacob, who after a few moments of silence, said he was busy and couldn't leave.

I thought I could endure it with some painkillers.

Mrs. Kinsey pressed her cheek against mine, feeling for a fever, and murmured like a mother, "Sweetie, you have a slight fever. I will take you to the hospital."

In the hospital's underground garage, when those men in black wielding baseball bats came at me, I never imagined they were actually after Mrs. Kinsey.

Outnumbered, I tried to protect Mrs. Kinsey, finally taking a heavy blow to the back of my head and passing out.

When I woke up, everything was white and deathly silent.

Mrs. Kinsey was gone, and when she was found, her body had been completely hollowed out, like a doll emptied of its stuffing.

Jacob stood by my hospital bed, pressing a photo of Mrs. Kinsey's mutilated body in front of me, his eyes bloodshot.

"Why did you have to take her out?! Can't you usually handle everything yourself? Why were you so delicate this time?"

"It's all your fault for being so flashy and arrogant, making enemies with those bastards and dragging my mom into it!"

"Do you really think you're a good cop? You're nothing but a disaster!"

I lay half on the bed, tears falling in large drops onto the white sheets.

I had no strength to retort, nor the heart to ask why Jacob, rushing to my side while I lay covered in blood on the stretcher, had Barbara with him.

I later learned that Barbara had returned that day and Jacob had gone to pick her up.

Jacob never visited me in the hospital again, naturally unaware that I was pregnant.

But Mrs. Kinsey's death was a fact, and even if I mentioned it, he would accuse me of using it as an excuse for sympathy.

He always thought of me that way.

I endured the torment of morning sickness, my mind filled with the image of Mrs. Kinsey's gruesome end.

Even my nightmares were haunted by a hollow-eyed mother holding my hand, telling me she was in pain.

I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, accompanied by severe depression and mania, and had to take a long leave of absence.

Our planned wedding turned into Mrs. Kinsey's funeral.

Freshly out of the hospital, my head wrapped in bandages, I cried voicelessly outside, begging Jacob to let me see Mrs. Kinsey one last time.

Jacob refused, telling me to get lost.

I resolved to personally catch the culprits who killed Mrs. Kinsey and heal my own traumas.

Before setting out, I knew the chances of my return were slim.

In a moment of delusion, I even asked Jacob, "What would it take for us to go back to the way we were?"

Jacob's voice was calm, as if describing the weather.

He said, "Even if you die, I won't forgive you."

The door slammed shut, he couldn't spare another glance for me.

Before leaving, I prepared a sumptuous lunch, tidied the house.

I left a bank card with all my savings under a table mat in the living room.

Before departing, I gently touched the dreamcatcher wind chime on the balcony, saying goodbye to it.

Perhaps Jacob would be better off without me.

In the end, I really did die.

With the information I had gathered, I found the culprits' hideout in an abandoned steel mill.

Reality was far more complicated than I imagined; there were over a dozen people gathered there.

I had no time to report to my superiors.

I was in pain, so cold.

As I watched their retreating figures, I tried to stand.

But my body refused to cooperate, collapsing.

My phone fell to the ground, splitting in two, only able to call an emergency contact.

Enduring the pain, I called Jacob more than ten times, all of which he angrily hung up on.