Chapter 2
Martin stared at her.
Nothing about her expression seemed off. The way she ate the muffins was exactly the same as always.
"No," Martin said, walking over and sitting down. "I had a weird dream."
Winona laughed. "What did you dream about?"
Martin thought, 'I dreamed you were dead, lying in the morgue, your chest cut open.'
"I dreamed you were yelling at me," Martin said, taking a bite of the muffin. "For not buying you that bag you wanted."
Winona rolled her eyes. "That's not a dream. That's a prophecy."
After the meal, Winona went into the kitchen to wash the dishes.
Martin excused himself to the bathroom and slipped inside, dialing the unfamiliar number.
The phone was off.
He pulled up the message log, took screenshots, then called Louis. "Check a number for me as soon as possible."
Ten minutes later, Louis called back. "Martin, are you messing with me? This number doesn't exist. Nobody has ever used it."
Martin fell silent.
"Martin? What's going on?" Louis asked.
"Nothing," Martin said, hanging up.
He walked back to the living room and saw Winona curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone.
When she saw him, she patted the spot beside her. "Come here. I found a really funny video."
Martin went over and took a seat.
She smelled like her usual body wash, her warmth reaching him through the pajamas.
This was the woman he had held in his arms for three years. He could trace the shape of her body with his eyes closed. However, all he could think about was that text saying she would die a third time today.
He thought, 'Today is the 18th. She'd already died yesterday. Is she supposed to die again today? What about the day before that? And when exactly was the second time?'
"Martin?" Winona waved her hand in front of his face. "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," Martin said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly. "Winona, I need to ask you something."
"Yeah?"
"Yesterday... Wait, actually, the night before yesterday. Did you dream about anything?"
Winona paused for a moment. "The night before yesterday? I worked overtime until midnight, came home, and crashed. Didn't dream at all. Why?"
"Nothing," Martin said, letting go of her hand. "Just asking."
She shot him a weird look, but didn't ask anything else and kept scrolling on her phone.
Martin leaned back, his mind a complete mess.
The autopsy report was real. The body in the morgue was real. And the Winona sitting beside him was real, too.
He thought, 'If she really was going to die, how would it happen? When? Who would kill her? More importantly, how was I supposed to stop someone who had already died twice from dying a third time?'
*****
That afternoon, Martin made an excuse to leave and headed straight for the morgue.
Derrick saw him and looked troubled. "Mr. Hanson, you're finally here. That lady disappeared at six-thirty this morning."
"What?" Martin was stunned.
"At six-thirty, when my shift ended, I checked. The drawer was open, but she wasn't there." Derrick lowered his voice. "We checked the cameras. Nobody came. She vanished."
Martin closed his eyes. It was exactly as he had expected.
He went to the hospital to look at the autopsy records with Winona's coworkers.
The doctor on duty recognized him and pulled up the records without asking questions.
The records showed that Winona had been brought to the hospital in the early hours of March 17 and was pronounced dead after resuscitation failed. The autopsy was performed that afternoon by two forensic pathologists.
One of those pathologists was her mentor. The other was her colleague. They were the ones who cut her open.
Then the next day, she showed up in front of Martin again, alive.
Martin walked out of the hospital and stood on the street. For the first time, the world didn't feel real.
His phone buzzed. [Stop digging. You won't find anything. If you want to save her, come to the funeral home in the old district at midnight for Marie Lewis. Don't let Winona know.]
Martin stared at the screen and texted back: [Who are you?]
The text was read, but there was no reply.
He tried again. [Why are you helping me?]
Still no reply.
*****
The funeral home sat in a narrow alley in the old district, an area about to be torn down. The place was tiny, with dusty old furniture stacked outside.
Martin arrived before midnight. The alley was quiet. He knocked on the door, but no one answered.
He kept knocking. An old voice came from inside. "The door is unlocked."
He pushed the door open. A musty smell rushed toward him. The shop was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the counter.
Behind the counter sat an old woman, probably in her seventies or eighties, knitting with her head down.
"Marie?" Martin said.
"Have a seat." Marie kept her head down. "Give me a minute."
Martin remained standing. "Someone sent me to find you. He said you know about Winona."
"Winona?" Marie looked up. "Who's that?"
"My fiancée. She's died three times already," Martin said.