Chapter 2

By the time I reached the city where the rescue team was located, it was already the next afternoon.

The air was filled with a strange mixture of disinfectant and death.

A detective was waiting for me at the entrance. He was a man in his forties, tall and muscular, with dark skin and eyes sharp as a hawk's, as if they could see through to the darkest corners of one's soul.

He didn't waste time on pleasantries, just looked me up and down before leading me toward the morgue.

"Miss Bailey, our condolences."

He spoke, his voice even colder and harder than on the phone.

"The scene inside may be disturbing. Please prepare yourself mentally."

I nodded.

The morgue lights were a harsh, sterile white, with cold air invading from all directions, drilling into my bones.

Two gurneys covered with white sheets stood side by side in the center.

My heart began to pound uncontrollably.

The detective walked to one of the beds, looking at me expressionlessly.

I took a deep breath and walked forward.

The moment the white sheet was pulled back, Ethan's face—frozen blue-purple, expression grotesquely contorted—appeared before my eyes.

His eyes were still open, filled with terror and unwillingness, as if he'd seen something extremely horrifying before death.

My stomach churned violently, intense nausea surging up my throat.

Not from grief, but from physiological revulsion.

This face had appeared in countless nightmares.

He would smile, saying the most venomous things in the gentlest tone.

"Vicky, the fish you made today is too salty. You're so stupid."

Then he'd pour scalding fish soup on the back of my hand.

"Vicky, look at you, you can't even mop the floor properly. What's the point of marrying you?"

Then he'd kick me in the stomach.

"Vicky, are you thinking about that poor boy again? You're nothing but a whore!"

Then he'd burn shameful marks into my wrist with his cigarette.

Now he was finally dead.

Dead miserably, face unrecognizable.

I should be happy.

I had to appear devastated.

I collapsed onto his body, letting out a piercing wail, my body trembling violently, retching continuously.

The tears were real.

They were tears of relief, five years of suppression finally released.

The detective didn't comfort me. He just stood there coldly, waiting for my emotions to settle slightly before pulling me away from Ethan's corpse.

Then he walked toward the other bed.

"Miss Bailey, I need you to identify this person as well."

My heart leapt to my throat.

The white sheet was pulled back, revealing a completely unfamiliar face.

It was a man in his thirties, gaunt features, regular appearance, but his complexion equally blue-purple.

Strangely, the corners of his mouth seemed to show relief, or perhaps satisfaction.

I searched rapidly through my memory. This face—I was certain I'd never seen it before.

I shook my head, my voice trembling with genuine fear:

"No... I don't know him. I've never seen him before."

This time the fear was from the heart.

A strange man who died with a smile, alongside a husband with a grotesque expression.

The image was too bizarre, like the opening of a horror film.

The detective didn't seem surprised by my reaction. He just nodded and signaled the medical examiner to cover the body again.

He led me out of the morgue to an office.

He poured me a cup of hot water, then retrieved a transparent evidence bag from a locked cabinet and pushed it in front of me.

Inside the evidence bag lay something black that I knew all too well.

The GPS model I'd swapped out—the one that could never send a distress signal.

My heart skipped a beat, blood rushing to my head.

My fingers tightened around the cup, but even the scalding water couldn't dispel the ice in my palms.

But on the surface, I remained composed, looking at him with confusion:

"What is this?"

"Ethan's personal effects."

The detective stared directly into my eyes, each word like a nail hammering into my heart.

"A GPS model, incapable of sending any signal. Miss Bailey, do you understand what this means?"

I played the part of a wife innocent and ignorant about climbing equipment.

"I don't know... he really liked buying these outdoor things. We have a lot at home. I don't understand them."

My voice sounded innocent and bewildered.

The detective suddenly gave a cold laugh, that laugh filled with undisguised mockery.

He pulled a second identical evidence bag from the cabinet and placed it heavily beside the first one.

"Is that so? Because coincidentally, we found an identical one on the other deceased."

I felt the entire world spinning and collapsing before my eyes.

Two identical GPS models.

Two identical "murder weapons."

My "patent," my supposedly perfect method of murder, had been copied.

In an instant, I went from being a mastermind in control to someone trapped in a maze, unable to explain any of this.

This was no longer a flawless murder.

It was a bizarre mystery case that I couldn't explain at all, one that sent chills to the bone.

My hands and feet went ice-cold, my brain blank. The psychological defense I'd carefully constructed completely crumbled the moment I saw that second GPS model.

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