Chapter 2
He suddenly recalled the last time Clara had called him. There had been knocking in the background, along with the sound of her strained breathing.
That wasn't an act.
She had truly been afraid.
Julian slammed his phone onto the desk, then braced his hands against his forehead, cold sweat seeping through his fingers.
Julian was on the night shift.
He had just lain down in the break room when someone knocked on the door.
It was Felix Carpenter from the emergency department, holding out a box of stomach medicine.
"Julian, Ms. Sterling asked someone to bring this over. She said Clara called a few days ago about stomach pain and wanted you to take it home."
The medicine was a special formula his mother, Catherine, had gone out of her way to obtain.
Julian looked at the box, his brow tightening.
"Just leave it there."
Felix hesitated. "You're not taking it to Clara?"
"She can come get it herself." Julian turned over, his back to the door. "What, are her hands or feet broken? Does she need me to handle something this minor?"
Felix sighed, set the medicine on the table, and left.
No sooner had Felix gone than Eleanor pushed the door open again, looking uncertain.
"Dr. Sterling, there's something else. Ms. Sinclair came in last month for a pre-pregnancy checkup, and everything looked normal. She scheduled a follow-up for this month, but she hasn't come in. Is she trying to conceive?"
Julian frowned. "I don't know. She never told me."
Eleanor continued, "Then about this month's follow-up."
"Leave it. If she wants to come, she'll come."
Eleanor let out a quiet sigh and left with the file in her arms.
I hovered in the air, watching everything unfold.
Julian, I was not trying to get pregnant.
I already was.
I only wanted to confirm it first, then surprise you.
But you will never receive that surprise.
My gaze fell on the box of medicine sitting there alone.
I had meant to go pick it up that day.
But the moment I stepped out, the masked man forced me back inside.
At the time, I wanted nothing more than for Julian to return my call, even just to hear my plea for help.
But he didn't.
Even now, he still thinks I was just sulking.
Early the next morning, Frank Harrison from the criminal investigation unit arrived.
Frank was Julian's high school classmate, and they were on good terms.
He stopped Julian at the hospital entrance just as Julian came out of surgery.
"Julian, can we talk for a minute?"
Julian pulled off his mask, looking tired.
"Make it quick. I still have rounds."
Frank's expression was grim, as if he did not know how to begin.
"You've heard about that serial killer who targets doctors' families, the one they call the Butcher, right? He was caught recently."
Julian took the bottle of water without much interest and had a sip.
"I heard. Wasn't he arrested in your district?"
"Yeah." Frank drew a deep breath. "During interrogation, he described his movements over the past few days. He said he went to Southside Apartments three days ago."
There was a sharp crash.
The cup in Julian's hand slipped and shattered on the floor.
Southside Apartments was our home.
Julian's voice tightened. "What did you say?"
Frank turned his head slightly, unable to meet his eyes.
"And there's something else. Property management just called me. They said there's blood seeping out from under your door, and Clara's phone has been off this whole time."
Julian stood frozen, the color draining from his face.
His hand trembled as he reached for the phone in his pocket.
He opened his call log, where seven missed calls from me, all from three days ago, were still sitting there.
What had he been doing at the time?
He had been counseling Seraphina, annoyed by the vibration of his phone, so he silenced it completely.
At that moment, I saw his hand begin to shake violently as he held the phone.
Those hands, once called the hands of God in surgery, were now trembling uncontrollably.
Julian bolted for the parking lot like a man out of his mind.
He did not even take off his white coat.
He ran three red lights on the way. What should have been a forty-minute drive, he finished in fifteen.
Police tape had already been set up outside the building.
A crowd had gathered, whispering among themselves.
"It's horrible. I heard she bled out completely."
"Yeah, and she was a painter. Such a pity."
Julian left his car key in the ignition and stumbled toward the entrance, nearly collapsing on the steps more than once.
His legs gave out, and he fell at the stairwell, his knees scraping open and bleeding, but he seemed not to feel it.
The elevator stopped on the sixteenth floor.
As the doors opened, a thick metallic smell rushed at him.
It was a scent he knew better than anything, one he had encountered countless times in the operating room.
But this time, it made him nauseous and left him gasping for air.
The door to the apartment stood wide open, and several forensic technicians were inside taking photos.
Julian stood at the doorway, his gaze pushing past them and landing in the center of the living room.
There, I lay in a pool of blood, dressed in a white nightgown.
The blood had dried to a dark, almost black color, like a flower that had bloomed to the point of decay.
Julian gripped the doorframe and retched violently.
But soon he forced himself upright, moving forward step by step like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Clara?
"Clara!"
He dropped to his knees in the blood, his hand shaking as he reached toward me, then hesitated.
Then, as if he had lost his mind, he pressed his hands against my chest and began CPR.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm a doctor. I can save you."
One, two, three.
But my body had already gone rigid.
As he pressed down with force, I heard the sharp crack of my own ribs breaking.
A clean, brittle snap.
That was the sound of death.