Chapter 3

The next day, Chloe stands over the gurney in the prep room.

Over me.

She's all business, her mortician's mask firmly in place.

Maria stands by, looking pale.

"She must have suffered," Maria whispers, genuine sorrow in her voice.

Chloe doesn't respond, just examines the extensive trauma to my face.

"We'll need significant reconstruction," Chloe says, her voice clinical.

She starts her work, skillful hands moving with precision.

Restoring the dead. It's what she does.

I watch her, my daughter, tending to my broken body.

She doesn't know.

She notes my approximate height, my build.

"Similar to Eleanor," she mutters to herself, almost unconsciously.

Then she shakes her head, dismissing the thought.

"No. Evil people live forever. It can't be her."

Evil. That's what she thinks of me.

My spectral heart clenches.

She continues her work on my hands.

Then she sees it. On my forearm.

Or rather, where it used to be.

A faint, old burn scar.

A scar I got pulling her, a small child, away from a kitchen fire.

The scar is gone. Crudely cut away by the killer.

Frank. He knew about that scar. He knew it was mine.

Chloe stares at the mutilated skin.

A flicker of something crosses her face. Unease.

Her hand, holding a tool, begins to tremble. Just a little.

She quickly regains her composure.

"Probably just a distinguishing mark the killer wanted to remove," she says, more to herself than to Maria.

But the seed is planted.

Maria, meanwhile, is looking closer at the wound.

"Chloe," Maria says slowly, "this tissue... it looks like it was deliberately excised. Not just part of the attack."

Chloe freezes.

Her breath hitches.

The trembling in her hands increases.

"Don't be ridiculous, Maria," Chloe snaps, too sharply.

She turns away, her back to me, to my body.

"It's just... part of the damage."

But her voice lacks conviction.

The professional detachment is cracking.

I feel a sliver of hope, a terrible, painful hope.

Recognize me, Chloe. Please.