Chapter 1
A woman's body was pulled from the river.
After nearly half a month submerged in the water, her face had deteriorated beyond recognition.
The dissecting-room's shadowless lamp shone on the bloated corpse, its light as pale as the winter sun.
Samuel Foster was the lead anatomist.
At thirty-two, he was the youngest chief forensic doctor in Jinsolin, and everyone regarded him as the best expert.
With his head lowered, he guided the scalpel through the corpse's chest steadily.
What he didn't know was that the body belonged to his wife, the woman he detested.
*****
Winona Shaw stood across from him, pulling on a new pair of gloves and covering her nose with the back of her hand. "Sam, Emily still isn't answering?"
"Yeah," he said.
"It's been almost a month. She's really being wilful. Giving you the silent treatment is one thing, but not a word from her? That's too much," Winona muttered.
Samuel didn't pause. "Don't bring her up."
"Well, I think you deserve better," Winona said, lowering her voice, as if she were afraid someone might overhear. "You're so busy every day, getting dragged in for overtime in the middle of the night. What did she do? She left without leaving a note."
"I said, don't bring her up," Samuel repeated, dropping a tissue sample into the stainless steel tray.
His voice was as cold as the room. "At thirty, she still complains about my working overtime a lot and about my being too nice to you. She'll blow up over the smallest stuff.
"Last time, she slammed the door and left. She hasn't called once since."
"Aren't you worried?" Winona asked.
"Why should I?" Samuel replied, his scalpel digging into the abdominal cavity without looking up. "Where else could she go?
"She'd either go back to her mom's place or run off to Chloe's and cry her heart out. After she's done with her drama, she'll come back."
"But Chloe called last week and said Emily never went to her place," Winona said.
"Chloe has nothing better to do," Samuel muttered, flipping over an organ to check it, his tone colder than the steel in his hand. "She can go wherever she wants. I'm not going to chase after her."
Winona lowered her head and didn't say another word.
When she lowered her head, her jaw tightened. It wasn't sadness she was holding back. It was a laugh she was trying to suppress.
I was watching from above, seeing everything clearly. I was floating right next to the shadowless lamp in the autopsy room.
My name was Emily Foster. I was thirty years old this year, and I was still Samuel's wife, at least on paper.
He was holding the scalpel, slicing through my body, one cut after another. He was separating my muscles, turning over my organs, and cutting my tissues.
His movements were smooth and practiced, and his face was expressionless. It was the same look he had when he picked out salmon for Winona at the market.
He had no idea this body was mine.
After half a month of soaking in the river, my face was nothing like it used to be. But my bones were still mine.
That old fracture in my left wrist went way back to four winters ago when I fell off my bike delivering lunch to him.
He lectured me for ten minutes while signing the surgery consent form, grumbling without one word of thanks, "If you can't handle the icy roads, maybe you should stay home."
That fracture was less than 4 inches from his right hand. He didn't look.
Winona shifted her angle, grabbed the scissors, and started working on the chest cavity. "This body is pretty well-proportioned. I'd say they were under thirty-five. Check out the collarbone curve. It was definitely someone who spent years hunching over the desk."
"Yeah, jot that down," Samuel said.
"There's an old scar on the right shoulder blade. Looks like a burn. It's small and won't mess with the results," Winona added.
"Skip it," Samuel said.
That scar was from the first year of our marriage, when I was trying to learn how to make onion rings and got burned by hot oil.
Sam grabbed my arm and held it under cold water for ten minutes, kept calling me clumsy, but he held my arm so gently, as if he was afraid I'd shatter.
Now he only said, "Skip it."
Alright, skip it.
"Okay, that's enough for today," Samuel said, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the waste bin. "We'll continue tomorrow. Label the samples and put them in the fridge."
"Sure thing, Sam," Winona said, nodding obediently. While she was tidying up, her fingers grazed my bare ankle for a split second.
That touch wasn't accidental. It felt more like she was checking, making sure I was a dead body on the metal table now.
Samuel walked over to the sink, washed his hands, and pulled out his phone to check the time.
It was 2:17 AM. He opened WhatsApp, not my conversation, but Winona's. He typed: [You've worked hard. Get some rest.] Then he hit send.
Winona replied right away. [You too, Sam. I'll bring you breakfast tomorrow.]
I was floating up near the ceiling, watching everything unfold.
Would his hands still be that steady when he opened up my stomach and found the engagement ring he once put on my finger?