Chapter 3My Wife The Murderer

Hearing Savannah's voice, my heart gave a painful, involuntary lurch. I paused the pen just above the signature line.

"I can sign. But I have one condition."

"Spit it out."

She folded her arms, radiating an air of complete superiority.

"I want you to personally go to the funeral home and prepare their bodies for burial."

I lifted my head, meeting her eyes, my chest heavy with complex emotions.

"Let’s call it... the last thing you do for us, as my wife. See them off."

Savannah's eyebrows knitted tightly together, her face a map of undisguised aversion and disgust.

"Are you insane? I'm not going to that morbid, stinking, filthy place!"

"It's my only condition."

I pushed the blank agreement back toward her.

"You agree, and I sign immediately. This divorce is finalized."

"You don't agree, and we go to court. And even if I can't convict you, I will make enough noise to ensure you and your precious student..." "Are completely ruined."

My voice was calm, but Savannah knew I wasn't bluffing.

She glared at me, her chest heaving, her lips trembling with suppressed rage.

After a long silence, she let out a slow, strained breath and bit out two words through clenched teeth.

"Fine. I'll go."

"But once it's done, you sign and get lost!"

Savannah believed this was nothing more than my final, meaningless act of spite.

She was wrong.

This wasn't the end.

Everything was just beginning.

The air in the funeral home hung thick with a sickly sweet mix of antiseptic and burnt incense.

The moment Savannah stepped inside, she clapped a hand over her nose, her face contorted with revulsion.

She was dressed in an expensive Chanel suit and ten-centimeter heels, profoundly out of place.

"Ethan, what the hell is this supposed to achieve?"

She hissed, her voice low and furious.

"Dragging me to this awful place? Does it make you feel better?"

I ignored her and walked directly toward the viewing room.

A worker slid open two sterile metal drawers, pulling out two white-shrouded bodies.

"Dr. Chen, you're a physician. You can handle this, right?"

I turned back to her, gesturing with my hand.

"Get started. Mom and Dad are waiting for you."

Savannah's face was chalk white, but she gritted her teeth and reluctantly approached the table.

She snapped on a pair of plastic gloves and roughly pulled back the first sheet.

When the face, horribly mangled by the crash, was exposed, she couldn't help a small, gagging sound. She quickly averted her eyes.

"Hurry up," I urged.

Fighting back the nausea, she grabbed a wet cloth and haphazardly wiped the face, treating the dead like a filthy kitchen counter.

She repeated the perfunctory gesture for the second body, never once bothering to truly look at either face.

"Done," she announced, peeling off the gloves.

She backed away as if fleeing a plague.

"My part of the deal is complete. The divorce agreement—"

"Not so fast," I interrupted, pointing to a cardboard box nearby.

"Their personal effects. You should inventory those too."

Savannah's patience was clearly exhausted, but she managed to suppress her fury long enough to open the box.

Inside was a collection of blood-soaked, torn clothing, a cracked old flip phone, and a severely scuffed leather wallet.

She pawed through the items with the disdain of handling trash.

Then, her hand froze.

Why did this stuff look so familiar?