Chapter 3

Cole got to work.

He was a prodigy in his field.

Hand him a skull, and based solely on bone density, muscle markings, and tissue depth charts, he could recreate a deceased person's living face with uncanny accuracy.

Margin of error under five percent.

First, he cleaned the bone.

His stiff brush swept through my eye sockets, nasal cavity, and auditory canals.

His motions were rough, laced with a bitter need to vent.

"Why the hell is this ear canal so narrow?" Cole muttered under his breath.

He slipped a metal probe into my left ear canal, only for it to snag.

"Hyperostosis?"

He leaned closer under the lamp.

My spirit grew taut.

I was born with profound hearing loss. I'd had a cochlear implant placed in my left ear; even though it was later removed, it left tiny drill holes and surgical abrasions along the temporal bone.

Cole's gloved thumb brushed over that exact spot.

His gaze flickered.

"These marks..."

A flash of memory crossed his mind, but he quickly shook his head, a sarcastic sneer twisting his lips.

"Another deaf girl?"

"Funny how they crawl out of the woodwork."

He didn't dwell on it. He began setting depth pegs.

He glued small plastic markers at various anatomical landmarks across the skull to indicate soft tissue thickness.

Then, he began applying the oil-based clay.

The clay shifted and stretched in his hands, blanketing the pale bone.

First the temporalis, then the masseter, then the orbicularis oris.

As the muscle groups stacked layer by layer, the faint outline of a human face began to emerge.

I hovered beside him, watching his hands shape and smooth the contours.

My thoughts were a tangled mess.

Part of me prayed he would recognize me, while another part terrified me with the prospect.

If he discovered this battered corpse was me, what would he do?

Would he drown in regret?

Or would he celebrate that I finally got what I deserved?

"Pointed chin," Cole muttered to himself as he carved away excess clay.

"Looks like that cold-blooded bitch."

His hand paused. His expression darkened.

"They all have that same ungrateful, cruel face."

With a sharp flick of his blade, he sliced off a chunk of clay from my jawline.

"Better if it looks nothing like her."

"Looking at her face makes me sick."

I closed my eyes, unable to bear his loathing.

Cole, do you know why my chin was so sharp?

Because during those months I spent nursing you through your illness, I dropped twenty pounds from sheer exhaustion.

I used to have soft, chubby cheeks.

You loved squishing them, calling me your little marshmallow.

And now, you find me disgusting.

Hours trickled away.

By the second night, most of the face was fully sculpted.

Only the nose and the eyes remained.

The nose is the anchor of the face; it dictates a person's entire presence.

Cole took a roll of clay, rolled it into a strip, and pressed it against the nasal bone.

His fingers were deft, pressing and shaping the bridge with practiced precision.

Suddenly.

His fingertips froze right over the left side of the bridge.

There was a minuscule bump in the bone.

Like a tiny, healed nodule.

An ordinary person would never notice it, but an expert like Cole, who read skeletal anatomies like open books, felt it instantly.

Cole's entire body went rigid.

That nodule.

It was etched into his very soul.