The damp air of the basement clung to my skin, smelling of mildew and old concrete. I dragged a thick black marker across the wall calendar, striking out the third month. Ninety days since I watched my own funeral from the shadows. Ninety days since Marcus buried a stranger in my name and claimed my father's fifty-million-dollar trust.

I turned back to the glowing monitors. The hacked police server displayed the autopsy file for Jane Doe—or rather, for Elena Thorne. The X-rays glowed stark white against the black background of the screen.

I zoomed in on the jaw.

Ten years ago, I endured a brutal root canal on my lower left molar. The dentist used a distinct silver amalgam filling. But the teeth smiling back at me from the digital scan showed a flawless porcelain crown, installed no more than three months before the crash.

"You didn't just cut the brakes, Marcus," I murmured to the empty room. "You put her in the car."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. The hitchhiker hadn't been a random tragedy. She was a prop. A meticulously selected body double, drugged and planted in my Mercedes to ensure the police found exactly what Marcus wanted them to find: a charred corpse wearing my trench coat.

I picked up the prepaid burner phone. The cheap plastic felt foreign in my hand. I attached the voice scrambler to the microphone, adjusting the dial until the audio playback sounded like a mechanical baritone.

I dialed the direct line for Detective Sergeant Miller.

The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "Miller. Major Crimes."

"You closed the Thorne case too early," I said, the scrambler distorting my words into a flat, metallic hum.

"Who is this?" Miller demanded, the rustle of papers stopping abruptly on his end. "This is a restricted line."

"The woman in the Mercedes wasn't driving," I continued, ignoring his question. "She was unconscious before the car ever hit the guardrail."

"Listen, pal, if this is a prank—"

"Check the toxicology report," I interrupted, my eyes locked on the autopsy file. "The initial screen missed it because of the fire damage, but look at the tissue samples from the stomach lining. The concentration of Zolpidem is massive. Enough to drop a horse."

Silence stretched across the line. I heard the faint click of a keyboard as Miller pulled up the file on his end.

"There's no Zolpidem on the initial report," Miller said, his tone shifting from annoyed to guarded.

"Because the coroner only ran a standard panel," I countered. "Order a deep tissue analysis on the remaining samples. You'll find the sedative. And while you're at it, run the dental records again. The victim had a brand-new porcelain crown on her lower left bicuspid. Elena Thorne had a silver filling."

"How do you know this?" Miller's voice hardened, the cop instincts fully kicking in. "Who the hell are you?"

I pressed the end call button. The line went dead.

I tossed the burner phone onto the desk. The trap was set. Marcus thought he had buried the truth in that ravine, but he only buried a stranger. And now, the police were going to dig her up.

"My wife was the anchor of my life," Marcus said, his voice cracking perfectly over the microphone.

I sat in the last row of the cathedral, pulling the black surgical mask higher over the bridge of my nose. Somber organ music hummed through the vaulted ceiling, masking the sound of Detective Miller shifting in the wooden pew beside me.

"You really think the killer is in this room, consultant?" Miller whispered, leaning close.

"I know he is," I replied.

Three days ago, my anonymous phone call forced Miller to dig up the charred remains. Yesterday, I handed him a flawless forensic analysis of the victim's jawbone under the alias 'Jane'. Today, he brought me here as his civilian expert to observe the mourners. He had no idea he was sitting next to the corpse.

Up on the altar, Marcus gripped the edges of the mahogany podium. He wore a custom charcoal suit—bought with my money, no doubt.

"Elena's passing leaves a void that can never be filled," Marcus continued, dabbing the corner of his eye with a folded handkerchief. "But she would want us to look forward. As of this morning, the legal transfer of her father's fifty-million-dollar trust is complete. I will personally manage these assets to honor her legacy."

In the front row, Margot nodded in solemn agreement. She wore a tailored black dress and my mother's South Sea pearl necklace. She reached up, tracing the smooth surface of the largest pearl with her thumb.

"He moves fast," Miller muttered, scribbling something in his notepad. "Wife barely in the ground, and he's already doing a victory lap with her bank accounts."

"He has debts to pay," I said, my eyes locked on Marcus's face. "Or he did."

Marcus lowered his head, letting a heavy silence fall over the crowd. The performance was flawless. He took a step back from the microphone, signaling the end of his eulogy.

I stood up.

Miller grabbed my elbow. "Hey. Where are you going?"

"To present my findings," I said, pulling my arm free.

I stepped into the center aisle. My leather pumps struck the marble floor, each step a sharp thud that cut through the lingering organ music. Heads turned as I walked past the rows of grieving friends and business partners.

"Excuse me," a man whispered from the aisle seat. I ignored him.

Marcus watched me approach. His brow furrowed. He glanced at Margot, who had stopped playing with the necklace. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing at the stranger in the black mask invading their perfect funeral.

I reached the altar stairs and climbed them without breaking my stride.

"Ma'am, this is a closed service," Marcus said, stepping into my path. His tone was polite, but his jaw tightened. "If you are from the press, you need to leave immediately."

I didn't answer. I stepped around him, walked straight to the podium, and slammed the thick manila folder onto the wood. The sharp crack echoed through the cathedral, silencing the organist mid-chord.

"Who let you in here?" Margot demanded, marching up the steps behind me. "Marcus, call security."

I hooked my fingers under the elastic loops of my mask. I pulled it away from my face and let it drop to the floor.

Marcus stopped moving.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin the color of dirty ash. He stumbled backward, his heel catching on the microphone cord.

Margot froze halfway up the stairs. Her eyes bulged, darting from my face to the framed memorial portrait resting on the altar, and back to me. Her hands began to shake violently.

"Hello, Marcus," I said, leaning into the microphone. My voice boomed through the cathedral speakers. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Gasps erupted from the front pews. Several people jumped to their feet.

"Elena?" an elderly board member choked out, pointing a trembling finger at the stage.

Miller shoved his way down the aisle, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Elena," Marcus finally whispered, his voice entirely stripped of its smooth confidence. "How... the car... I saw the body."

"You saw exactly what you wanted to see," I said, flipping open the manila folder. I flattened the first page against the podium. "But you made a mistake."

"This is a trick," Margot stammered, gripping the wooden railing. "Marcus, it's a trick. She's dead. The police confirmed it."

"The police confirmed a corpse in my coat," I corrected, staring directly at Margot. "A corpse you two planted."

"Shut up!" Marcus yelled, lunging toward the podium.

Miller vaulted up the steps and shoved Marcus back by his shoulder. "Stay exactly where you are, Thorne."

"She's insane!" Marcus shouted, pointing at me. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "Arrest her! She faked her own death to frame me!"

I smiled. A cold, hard stretch of my lips.

"I didn't fake the dental records," I said, tapping the glossy photograph attached to the autopsy report.

I leaned closer to the microphone, making sure every person in the room heard the words.

"The deceased had a full porcelain crown put in three months ago," I said, staring dead into Marcus's eyes. "Which means before I 'died,' you already had a corpse prepared. That's called first-degree premeditated murder."