Chapter 1
Martin's phone buzzed as he finished tucking Winona in.
It was 2:17 a.m. A text from an unknown number lit up the screen. [Your fiancée will die today. For the third time.]
Martin stared at it for a few seconds, then rolled over and shut his eyes.
He thought, 'Seriously? Scammers aren't trying anymore. I mean, if you're going to scare someone, at least make it sound believable. Who starts with 'the third time'?'
Winona was fast asleep, breathing steadily behind him.
She was a forensic pathologist. Earlier today, she had finished a seven-hour autopsy. By the time she got home, she was so exhausted that she hadn't showered. She collapsed onto the bed and passed out.
Martin worried about her, so he had taken the next day off, planning to drive her out of town to relax.
His phone buzzed again. It was the same number. [If you don't believe me, check her bag. The innermost pocket.]
Martin frowned and glanced back at Winona.
She lay perfectly still, her breathing soft and even. Every now and then, her eyelashes fluttered, like she was dreaming.
He knew he shouldn't go through his fiancée's bag, but the certainty in that message unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite explain.
Winona's bag hung on the hook behind the door. A black backpack, half-zipped.
Moving as quietly as possible, Martin slipped out of bed and crossed the room. He reached inside and began to search.
His fingers brushed against a sheet of paper tucked deep inside the innermost pocket.
He pulled it out.
It was an autopsy report from the hospital.
[Deceased: Winona Lane]
[Age: 28]
[Time of Death: March 17, 2024]
[Cause of Death: Cardiac arrest]
[Notes: No external injuries. Abnormal fibrosis observed in myocardial tissue samples.]
Martin's hand trembled. The paper almost slipped from his fingers.
March 17 was yesterday. Today was already the 18th.
He spun around sharply and realized she wasn't in bed. "Winona?"
No one answered. He pulled back the blanket and could still feel her warmth on the bed.
Martin rushed through the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom. She wasn't anywhere. The front door was closed and locked from the inside, the kind that needed a key to open.
The key was still sitting on the cabinet.
A chill ran down Martin's spine. He grabbed his phone to call the police, but the screen lit up first.
It was the same number. [Don't bother searching. She's at the morgue. Drawer Three.]
Martin cursed, grabbed his coat, and ran out the door. He didn't know if the text was real, but he knew he'd go crazy if he didn't check it himself.
*****
The morgue was 2.5 miles from his place. Martin ran three red lights on the way.
The security guard, Derrick, was startled awake by the banging on the door. He grumbled as he opened it. "What's going on? It's the middle of the night—"
"Drawer Three." Martin panted. "Open it."
Seeing Martin in his police uniform, Derrick didn't dare ask any questions. He led him into the morgue.
A blast of cold air hit them, and rows of stainless steel drawers gleamed under the harsh light.
Derrick pulled open Drawer Three and slid out the slab.
A white sheet covered the shape of a person.
Martin reached out, his fingers shaking. The second he pulled back the sheet, his legs went weak, and he collapsed.
It was Winona. Her eyes were closed, her lips pale, still dressed in her favorite pajamas. A Y-shaped autopsy cut ran across her chest, roughly sewn closed.
"This was brought in tonight," Derrick stammered, clearly rattled. "They said it was cardiac arrest. They couldn't save her. The family is coming tomorrow to identify—"
Martin couldn't process anything Derrick was saying. He clutched Winona's cold hand, his head buzzing.
The message at 2:17 a.m. had said today would be the third time.
He grabbed his phone and pulled up the photo of the autopsy report. [Time of death: March 17th.]
Today was the 18th, which meant she died yesterday.
Martin thought, 'Then who the hell was sleeping next to me the night before?'
His phone buzzed again. [Believe me now? Don't panic. Your fiancée will wake up in your bed at exactly six this morning. Then she'll ask what you dreamed about and why you're all sweaty.]
Martin glanced at the time. It was 4:23 a.m.
He kept staring at the text and decided he'd wait it out.
Time dragged like hell, but six finally came. His phone rang. The caller ID read Winona Lane.
Martin's hand shook as he answered.
A familiar, sleepy voice came through the line. "Martin, where are you? Why did you run out in the middle of the night? I woke up, and you weren't there. You scared me."
Martin opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Hello? Is the signal bad? Hurry back. I bought you muffins," Winona said.
The call ended. Martin stood up, his legs still shaking. He looked at the body in the drawer, then back at the call log on his phone.
Derrick edged closer, asking cautiously, "Mr. Hanson, should I slide it back in?"
Martin took a deep breath. "Leave her there until I return. Nobody touches her."
*****
He ran outside and grabbed a cab home.
The moment he pushed the door open, he saw a scene more familiar than anything else in his life, yet twisted in a way that felt deeply wrong.
Winona was sitting at the dining table in her pajamas, with two boxes of muffins in front of her. She picked one up and was about to eat it.
"You're back." She looked up at him, frowning. "Why are you sweating so much? Did you have a nightmare?"