Chapter 2

"My nail."

"Look at my right middle finger."

"There's his skin there."

I sharply lowered my head.

Sarah Davison's right hand was placed by her side, fingers slightly curled.

Her nails were short, with a light pink polish, showing almost no abnormality.

Ignoring Dr. Thorne's cold expression, I put on gloves and picked up a magnifying glass.

In the nail bed of her right middle finger, there was indeed a tiny, dark reddish speck of tissue.

It was so small.

If I hadn't been looking specifically, it could easily have been overlooked as a blood clot.

My breath hitched.

"Detective Stone."

I looked up, my voice tight.

"There's suspected skin tissue in the nail bed of the victim's right middle finger. I recommend DNA extraction."

Detective Stone walked over.

He was in his early thirties, with sharp, stern features, a notoriously dedicated workaholic in the homicide division.

He bent down for a look, his expression shifting slightly.

Dr. Thorne also walked back.

He only looked for a second, then his face darkened.

"The bathroom scene was complex; it's normal to find impurities in the nails."

I said, "But if it was suicide, why would she have scratched skin tissue?"

"Can you confirm it's skin tissue?"

"No, that's why it needs testing."

Dr. Thorne stared at me.

"Maya, do you know what you're doing right now?"

Of course, I knew.

I was questioning the conclusion of an authoritative forensic pathologist.

I was, as an intern, holding up a suicide report that was about to be officially stamped.

I also knew that if I was wrong, my internship at the police station might be over.

But Sarah Davison's voice was crying.

"Please."

"My mother only has me."

Outside the door, Sarah Davison's mother stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes red and swollen, her voice hoarse beyond recognition.

"Officers, my daughter would never kill herself."

"Just yesterday, she told me she'd take me for a follow-up appointment at the hospital this weekend."

"She wouldn't abandon me."

In that moment, I suddenly remembered the day my grandmother was buried.

Before the coffin was closed, she had said in my ear:

"Maya, don't be afraid of the dead. The dead won't harm you."

"What's truly frightening is when the living close their mouths."

I looked up and said, word for word:

"Detective Stone, I request a re-examination."

The air in the autopsy room seemed to freeze.

Detective Stone didn't speak immediately.

Dr. Thorne's face, however, had turned incredibly grim.

He took off his glasses, slowly wiped them with a cloth, his voice eerily calm.

"You request?"

He looked at me as if I were some ridiculous joke, completely out of my depth.

"Maya, you don't have the authority to independently issue an expert opinion yet."

I said, "I know, so I'm only making a suggestion."

"A suggestion?" He sneered. "Your 'suggestion' will make the detective team restart their investigation, it will ignite unnecessary hope in the family, and it will delay a case that is already clear. Can you bear the consequences?"

My fingertips grew cold.

Detective Stone finally spoke:

"Dr. Thorne, since suspected tissue has been found, extracting and sending it for testing won't hold up the process."

Dr. Thorne's movements paused.

"Does Detective Stone also think my judgment was wrong?"