Chapter 2
The external examination unfolded in an oppressive silence so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Jonathan' movements were flawless, as if he were demonstrating for a medical textbook.
He checked my pupils, peeled back my eyelids, and looked for anything lodged in my nose or mouth.
His fingers ran over my neck, checking for any marks left by strangling.
That used to be my most sensitive spot—just a light touch from him would make me squirm with ticklishness, and he'd laugh, pull me into his arms, and cover me with gentle kisses.
But now, his fingertips were cold as iron, shielded by latex gloves, sweeping over me without a hint of warmth.
"No signs of strangulation or scratches on the neck. Mechanical asphyxiation is ruled out for now."
He checked my nails, looking for any signs of a struggle.
"No broken nails, and no traces of the suspect's skin under the nails. It's likely the victim didn't get into a violent fight before she died."
His gaze landed on my left hand, clenched tightly into a fist.
From the agony and sheer terror of the fall, my hand was still locked tight, even in death.
Jonathan' brow furrowed ever so slightly—the first crack in his composure since the autopsy began.
He attempted to pry my fingers open, but rigor mortis made it a real struggle.
"Turn up the lights," he ordered.
Jonathan ordered.
A harsher, almost blinding light hit my hand as Frank passed him a small pair of bone pliers.
Jonathan took them and, moving with extreme care, started prying my rigid fingers open one by one.
"Click."
A faint click echoed in the silence.
It was the sound of my index finger being forced open.
My soul jolted, like that pain cut straight through the line between life and death, burning itself deep into my mind.
One by one.
He was so patient and focused, like he was dismantling the most complicated piece of art.
At last, he managed to pry open my death-grip, little by little.
My palm was empty.
Just the deep nail marks pressed into my skin from how tightly I'd held on.
Jonathan froze.
He stared at my palm, streaked with blood and bruises, and for a moment, he just stood there in silence.
No one knew what I'd been trying to grab.
I wanted to grab the railing, to hold onto a sliver of hope, to reach for the future I had with our baby.
But I ended up with nothing.
My hands were full of nothing but despair.
"No foreign objects found in the victim's palm."
He quickly regained his composure and went on with his cold, clinical narration.
"Multiple closed fractures found on the limbs, consistent with the characteristics of a high fall."
He removed my torn dress, lifted it with forceps, and placed it into an evidence bag.
My body was left utterly exposed to everyone in the room.
This was the body he once treasured, so much that even looking at it felt like a violation.
He used to whisper in my ear, telling me my skin was as smooth and warm as the softest stone.
He used to leave countless marks on me, claiming me as his own.
But now, he just looked over those ugly, purple bruises with clinical detachment, measuring and recording every single one without a hint of emotion.
"Large areas of subcutaneous hemorrhage on the chest, abdomen, and back, irregular in shape—consistent with the pattern of impact from a fall."
His gaze finally settled on my lower abdomen.
It was still flat.
At just three months, there was no way anyone could tell I was pregnant.
I wanted it to be a surprise for Jonathan, so I didn't tell a single soul.
I went to all my prenatal appointments alone, sneaking off without telling anyone.
I still remember how nervous I was when the doctor did the ultrasound—my palms were sweating.
And when I heard that strong, steady "thump-thump" of the baby's heartbeat from the machine, tears sprang to my eyes.
The doctor smiled and said, "See? Your baby's perfectly healthy—strong as a little locomotive."
I stood outside the hospital, clutching that tiny ultrasound printout, just soaking in the sunlight and staring at it for what felt like forever—like I couldn't quite believe it was real.
All you could see on that black-and-white print was a tiny, blurry shadow.
But that was our baby—Jonathan's and mine.
Our little miracle, the proof of our love.
I carefully tucked the ultrasound printout and the pregnancy test into a pretty little box, hiding it deep in the back of our bedroom nightstand. I was planning to give it to him on our anniversary, with myself as part of the surprise.
I'd already practiced how I'd say it in my head.
"Mr. Rivers, guess what? You're going to be a dad. Please take care of us in the future."
I could totally picture it—Jonathan's face, always so icy and unreadable, suddenly breaking into shock and wild joy.
He'd pick me up and twirl me around like a little kid, probably grinning so hard his cheeks would hurt.
He was crazy about kids.
Every time we walked past a baby on the street, he couldn't take his eyes off them.
He always said that when we had a kid, he'd teach them to identify every bone, raising a little forensic prodigy from the start.
I'd protest, "No way! If it's a girl, she should be beautiful, learn to paint, and dance."
Then he'd playfully tap my nose and say, "Alright, whatever you say. We'll have a daughter—just as pretty and cute as you."
But now
Everything's gone up in smoke.
'Jonathan, please, just look at me,' Emily begged in her heart.
'Look at my belly—really see what's there.'
'Your precious fairness and logic are about to destroy the future you wanted most, and you don't even know it.'
My soul was screaming, roaring in agony.
But he continued his report, utterly composed, noting in a detached tone, "Abdomen is flat, no abnormal protrusions."
Just a cold, clinical verdict that pronounced my doom.