Chapter 1
While I was drugged and entombed in a concrete wall, my fiancé, Alex Quinn, was out celebrating the birthday of my fake heiress sister, Emily Summers.
To indulge his own cruel amusement, the killer shoved a phone in front of my face, forcing me to send a desperate message to Alex.
Drugged mute, my fingers smashed and twisted, I could only drag a single, shaky letter across the screen: [Help.]
As a policeman, Alex dismissed it as another one of my ploys.
His voice message crackled with irritation. "Stop this nonsense. I'm not in the mood for your games today. It's Emily's birthday. Keep this up, and we're done for good."
Three days later, construction workers at the site broke through the wall and found my body.
Alex arrived on the call, his detective's mind already coolly piecing together the timeline of the victim's imprisonment and torture.
He studied the grotesque, swollen features, analyzing the scene with professional detachment. However, Alex never recognized the woman he once swore to love forever.
*****
The discovery triggered an immediate alarm. Construction workers secured the site and called the police.
The cops cordoned off the scene, but somehow, the news still leaked out.
"Corpse Found Entombed in Concrete on the Most Expensive Plot Owned by the Summers Family" shot straight to the top of the trending list. A horrifying image of the victim's mutilated face, skin peeled away by the falling concrete, began circulating in group chats.
The city bureau issued a direct order: due to the exceptionally cruel method and severe public outcry, the case had to be solved within three days.
As the youngest and most accomplished captain in the city's violent crimes division, Alex was put in charge.
He arrived on the scene with his team, directing the collection of evidence and witness interviews with practiced efficiency.
Ryan Shaw, his deputy, relayed the update, his gloves still streaked with grime. "Captain Quinn, the victim is female, no ID found. Forensics put her age at about 25, and the time of death is roughly three days ago."
Alex lifted the white sheet. The sight of the brutalized body made his knuckles whiten, but years of training forced a clinical calm.
"The facial trauma is extensive. Depressed and comminuted fractures to the zygomatic bones indicate blunt force trauma. Teeth are missing but appear to have been extracted intact, not shattered.
"The clothing is torn, and besides the stab wounds and blunt force injuries, there are severe burns. The distribution suggests repeated, non-fatal assaults over a period of time."
A heavy pause followed his next words. "Most significantly, the nasal and oral cavities are filled with cement. This indicates she was conscious... aware... as she was entombed."
His gaze was fixed on my hands.
The fingers were broken, the fingertips worn down to the bone.
He knew, with a sickening certainty, what that meant—clawing desperately at an unyielding wall.
Three days ago, the killer tied me up at the construction site and forced a whole bottle of mute drug into me.
He tried out hot coals, steel pipes, scalpels, and pliers on me, one after another, just to watch me twisted up in pain, unable to make a sound.
"Don't die too fast. I just love watching you hurt." He laughed.
After that, he smashed my fingers and stuffed me into the concrete wall.
As the concrete started pouring down, I clawed at the wall with everything I had, trying to drag myself up. My nails were worn down to the quick, blood oozing into the cracks.
The cement kept rising, swallowing my body, flooding my mouth and nose, burning my throat as I choked. At last, I stopped fighting.
Right as my mind started to fade, I felt a twisted sense of relief. Finally, it was over. Death meant no more pain.
After hearing Alex's analysis, everyone felt a chill run down their spine.
The killer's methods were so twisted it made people sick. But why go to such lengths against a girl barely in her twenties?
Alex stood, his posture rigid with controlled focus. "Judging by the method, this feels personal. A grudge. Our priority is identifying the victim to narrow the suspect field."
Ryan stepped closer, offering a set of photographs. "Captain Quinn, the medical examiner noted something else. Beneath the recent trauma, there's an old scar on the victim's abdomen, roughly six inches long. The patterning doesn't look surgical. Could this be a lead?"
Alex's gaze dropped to the photos, lingering on the specific image of my torso, on that twisted scar.
I couldn't help the rush of excitement in my chest. Was he finally remembering?
That jagged scar was from years ago, when I took a knife meant for Alex during a mission.
The long knife pierced straight through my lower abdomen. I traded my chance to ever be a mother for this ugly scar.
But every night, Alex would kiss that scar like it was the most precious thing in the world. "Claire, it's not ugly at all. It's the most beautiful mark in the world."
"What's up, Captain Quinn? Did you find something?" Ryan asked, his voice tight with worry as he saw Alex just standing there, lost in thought.
But Alex just hesitated, then looked away. "Nothing. Let me know as soon as the lab has anything."
My heart sank all over again.
The fragile hope shattered, its shards dissolving into a colder, quieter despair. Of course he didn't remember. After what happened three years ago, Alex could barely stand to be in the same room with me.
Our paths crossed now only through duty.
That scar, and everything it once meant, was likely buried far deeper than I was.