Her throat felt stuffed with cotton, every airway sealed shut.

Red welts erupted across her skin, burning and itching at once.

She knew she couldn't wait for Luke to come back. An allergic reaction could kill in minutes.

Penelope grabbed her phone and dialed 911, then called the police.

Her consciousness began to slip. A voice echoed from somewhere far away, from a long time ago.

I take Penelope Simmons to be my wife. I will love her and protect her for the rest of my life. I will never let her suffer a moment of pain or harm.

She collapsed to the floor and closed her eyes.

The rest of my life. How short that turned out to be.

When she woke, the heart monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.

Penelope lay in a hospital bed, an oxygen mask strapped over her face, an IV needle taped to the back of her hand.

Homer James sat in the chair beside her bed.

"By the time we got there, you were in severe oxygen deprivation. There's brain damage." He paused, his jaw tight. "The doctors said you'll experience frequent headaches, nausea, memory decline. It could affect your ability to work. You'll need long-term rehabilitation."

Homer hesitated before continuing.

"Crystal was bailed out by Luke. He pulled every string he had. Even the higher-ups at the bureau got calls. Back when he was wrapped up in that murder case himself, he didn't go this hard..."

"He got her out around one in the morning. Made a whole production of it."

One in the morning.

So Luke had never come back to the villa. He'd forgotten entirely about the woman dying in his confinement room.

Penelope spoke, her voice raw and shredded.

"Send me a copy of the witness statements from the perfume death case."

Homer nodded and headed back to the station.

The door to her room swung open. Luke walked in, Crystal trailing behind him, looking timid and small.

He approached the bed and took in her ashen face, his brow creasing.

He reached out to touch her forehead. Penelope knocked his hand away.

His lips pressed into a thin line. He withdrew his hand, and when he spoke, there was an edge of accusation in his voice.

"You called the police? Did you even consider what kind of damage that could do to the Gilberts' reputation?"

Penelope looked at him. This man she'd spent five years of her life with.

"If I hadn't called the police," she said at last, "was I supposed to just lie there and die?"

Luke faltered for a second. "A little perfume isn't going to kill anyone."

Crystal set a fruit basket on the nightstand, her expression wounded and meek.

"Miss Simmons, please don't blame Luke. He was just worried I'd be wrongly accused, and he panicked. It's all my fault. I'm just so stupid..."

Luke pulled Crystal against his side, his arm around her shoulders, his gaze soft with concern.

"Don't blame yourself. None of this is your fault."

He turned back to Penelope on the hospital bed. His tone was flat, detached.

"What happened last night should serve as a lesson. Don't let your personal grudges drive you to hurt other people again."

"Crystal scraped her arm at the station. I'm taking her to get it treated. Get some rest."

He turned and guided Crystal toward the door, his arm still around her.

At the threshold, Penelope caught Crystal glancing back over her shoulder. A thin smile played on her lips, laced with triumph.

Penelope stared at the ceiling. Pain lanced through her skull, but her eyes were sharp and clear.

A chime. Her inbox.

Homer had sent the case transcripts.

Penelope read through them with painstaking care, sifting every line for anything out of place.

Her gaze sharpened. She picked up her phone and called Homer.

"Pull Crystal's communication records with the lumber supplier. And look into her relationship with the victim. I don't think she was unaware the wood was contaminated with fungus. I think she deliberately left the sterilization incomplete to make it look like an accident."

"Got it," Homer said.

Penelope opened her messages and found Chief Morrison's thread.

Chief Morrison, due to a medical condition, I may not be able to continue fieldwork in the near term. The international DNA identification project for disaster victims you mentioned before—I'd like to apply. I hope you'll approve my request.

She sent it. Three minutes later, her phone buzzed.

That project requires three years in Germany. Are you sure?

I'm sure.

All right. Focus on healing. I'll handle the paperwork.

Penelope set her phone down.

Outside the window, daylight flooded the sky.

Her heart was still. Quiet as a lake without wind.

Over the days that followed, Penelope underwent daily brain rehabilitation treatment.

Twice a day, transcranial direct-current stimulation sessions left her in agony so severe she wanted to die.

But she never made a sound. She clenched her teeth and endured.

Outside her room, nurses often whispered among themselves.

"Isn't she Mr. Gilbert's wife? She's been hospitalized for days, and he hasn't visited once."

"He's next door, looking after that Miss Henson. Sits by her bed all day, doting on her hand and foot. The woman has a tiny cut on her arm, and he insisted the doctor admit her."

"Wait, seriously? He's got someone new?"

"Shh, keep it down."

Penelope swallowed the pills in her hand. The pain in her head surged again, sharp and relentless, like someone driving a drill bit into the base of her skull.

She closed her eyes and waited for the wave to pass.

Then she got up on her own and walked toward the treatment room.

As she passed Crystal's room, the door was cracked open. She stopped.

Luke sat at Crystal's bedside, holding a bowl of porridge. He blew on a spoonful, then lifted it to Crystal's lips.

Band-Aids were wrapped around several of his fingers. That detail was familiar.

It was the same way he used to look, standing outside the precinct every day with a packed meal waiting for her.

"Luke, you really shouldn't cook for me yourself anymore. It hurts me to see you get hurt," Crystal murmured, her voice impossibly soft.

"Taking care of you is something I'll always want to do."

Luke held her hand and tucked it gently against his chest to keep it warm.

"But shouldn't you go check on Mrs. Gilbert too? I'm worried she'll be upset and take it out on me..."

Luke laughed. He reached out and pinched Crystal's pale cheek.

"She works with dead bodies for a living. You think she can't handle a little pain? She had you locked up at the precinct for three whole hours. Of course I'm going to make it up to you."

Every word was a blade dipped in ice, driven straight into Penelope's skull.

She pressed her hand against her head, fighting through the bone-deep pain.

Her phone lit up in her pocket. A message from Homer.

[Penelope, I found something. The lumber supplier confirmed he specifically warned Crystal that the wood contained fungal spores and that full sterilization was mandatory before using it for fragrance production.]

[But we checked the sterilization equipment logs in her workshop. She lowered the original parameters by two-thirds. She deliberately preserved most of the fungal contamination.]

[Also, it looks like she and the victim had a romantic history. She lied about him being a stranger.]

A theory began to take shape in Penelope's mind.

She typed back: [Pull her hospital records from the past six months.]

She turned off the screen. She didn't look back at the tender scene inside the room. She walked away.

Two weeks later, Penelope was discharged and went home.

She hadn't even finished changing her shoes at the door when she heard giggling and playful whining coming from the master bedroom.

"Luke, you're so mean—"

Penelope didn't pause. She changed into her house shoes and went upstairs.

In the bedroom, Crystal was lying on their marital bed, laughing as she pinched Luke's waist.

Luke turned when he heard the footsteps.

"You're back?"

Penelope looked at him. "What is she doing here?"

Luke stood and walked over to her. His expression was open, almost indifferently so.

"Someone trashed Crystal's shop. She had nowhere to go, so I brought her here to stay for a few days."

Crystal rose from the bed, and only then did Penelope see what she was wearing.

Her pajamas.

Crystal stood behind Luke, her face arranged into the perfect picture of fragile vulnerability.

"Miss Simmons, I'm sorry to impose. If it bothers you, I'll leave right now..."

Luke stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body.

"I know this makes you uncomfortable, but—"

Penelope cut him off before he could finish.

"It doesn't."

She turned and walked away, leaving Luke staring after her, visibly thrown.

Her indifference seemed to irritate him more than anger would have. He stepped into her path and blocked her.

"What kind of act is this? You think playing it cool gives you leverage over me?"

Penelope looked at him. Her eyes were cold and still, like a frozen lake with no light beneath the surface.

"Do whatever makes you happy. I don't care."

She moved to leave. Luke seized her arm.

"'Don't care'? Fine. Crystal has a delicate constitution, and you reek of death from that morgue of yours. It might affect her health. I'll have someone cleanse the bad luck off you."

He ordered his bodyguards forward. They carried thick branches of pomelo leaves.

"Whip her. Beat every last trace of that stench out of her."

Penelope stepped back.

"Luke, have you lost your mind? I just got out of the hospital."

"Crystal just got out of the hospital too. You're tougher than she is. You can take it."

The bodyguards grabbed Penelope by the shoulders and forced her to the ground. They raised the thick pomelo branches and brought them down across her back.

Crack. Crack.

Her skin split open on impact.

Luke watched her grit her teeth and endure it. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. He walked into the study and shut the door.

Crystal stepped forward with a smile. "Don't blame Luke, Miss Simmons. You do have a certain... smell on you, and he's worried it might affect me. After all, he says the scent he loves most in this world is mine."

Penelope lifted her head and stared at her, eyes blazing with defiance and fury.

The intensity of that glare unsettled Crystal. She turned to the bodyguards.

"Dip the branches in salt water. If you're going to cleanse her, do it thoroughly."

Salt water seared into the torn flesh, setting every nerve ending on fire.

After ninety-nine lashes, Penelope collapsed to the floor.

Penelope clenched her teeth and dragged herself back to the guest room, her body a map of fresh wounds.

She touched the hidden camera pinned beneath her collar, her gaze razor-sharp.

Ever since the last time he'd hurt her, she had been collecting evidence of Luke's deliberate abuse.

Five years ago, she had gotten him out of prison.

Five years from now, she could put him right back in.

That night, a high fever set in.

She curled up on the bed, shaking uncontrollably, the pain in her head returning with a vengeance. She fumbled for the painkillers the doctor had prescribed, shook two into her palm, and swallowed them dry.

She closed her eyes and waited for the medication to take hold.

Get through this. Get the divorce papers signed.

Then she and Luke Gilbert would have nothing to do with each other ever again.

She drifted into a fitful, feverish sleep.

In the middle of the night, the blanket was ripped away. The biting cold jolted her awake.

Before she could see who it was, a hand clamped around her shoulder and hauled her off the bed.

"Penelope, how could you do something so vicious to Crystal?!"

The grip tore at her wounds. She gasped. "What are you talking about..."

"Someone slashed her arm." Luke's voice ground out from deep in his chest. "The cut matches your forensic scalpel exactly. You're the only one with a key to the master bedroom!"

"It wasn't me. I didn't do it..."

"If not you, then who?! Those scalpels are covered in bacteria from corpses. Crystal is pregnant! Are you trying to kill the baby inside her?!"

Her pupils contracted. The strength she'd been using to struggle drained out of her all at once.

A crushing wave of helplessness flooded through her, gnawing at every wound that covered her body.

The ones on her skin. The ones on her heart.

Every single one hurt enough to shatter a person whole.

Crystal rushed into the guest room, clutching a gash on her arm several inches long, blood seeping between her fingers.

She sobbed so hard she could barely breathe, then dropped to her knees directly in front of Penelope.

"Miss Simmons, if you're angry, take it out on me. Don't hurt my baby. He's only three months along. He's innocent..."

Luke gathered her into his arms, his face twisted with anguish, his voice soft and soothing.

"Don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to our child."

Then he turned his head, and every trace of tenderness vanished, replaced by something savage.

"Penelope, I've never been more disappointed in you. Attacking a woman and her unborn child!"

"I didn't do it." Penelope's voice was raw. "Check my forensic field kit. None of the scalpels have blood on them."

Luke let out a cold laugh.

"You had the nerve to do it, so of course you cleaned the evidence. Are you saying Crystal cut herself just to frame you? She's a mother. She would never gamble with her own child's life!"

He lifted Crystal and carried her toward the door, not once looking back as he issued his order to the guards flanking the hallway.

"Since my wife refuses to confess, let her find out what it feels like to be cut with a forensic scalpel. Every blade in her kit. Use them all on her. Every single one."

Penelope stared after him, her voice breaking.

"Luke, you can't do this to me! I saved your life!"

Luke didn't flinch. The cold light in his eyes only sharpened.

"You're not the righteous, kindhearted Penelope you used to be. You used your own scalpels to hurt someone. Don't you dare talk to me about debts of gratitude."

He left with Crystal in his arms.

Draped against Luke's chest, Crystal's lips curved into a smile so faint it was almost invisible.

A smile laced with the quiet thrill of victory.

Penelope pressed herself into the corner of the room, but there was nowhere left to retreat.

The fever and the pounding in her skull made her thoughts heavy as lead, but she fought to stay conscious.

"Don't touch me! Stay back!"

The guards retrieved her forensic field kit, unlatched it, and laid out the blades one by one, each gleaming under the light.

Different sizes, different shapes. Fifty-seven in total. Every last one honed to a wicked edge.

Penelope's whole body began to tremble. The color drained from her face.

Two guards pinned her arms. Two more picked up the scalpels.

A slice. A stab.

"Ahhh—"

The scream tore out of her. Tears slid down her ashen cheeks before she could stop them.

The cuts weren't deep enough to kill, but they were deep enough to make every nerve in her body scream.

The second blade. The third. The fourth. The fifth.

One after another, until all fifty-seven scalpels had been used.

Her back, her arms, her thighs were carved with wound after wound, blood soaking through her clothes until the fabric turned red.

She lay on the floor, her entire body burning as though set aflame.

The Luke who had once thrown himself over her to shield her from a collapsing beam.

The Luke who had risked his own life to protect hers.

That same man had now, for the sake of another woman, dragged her into hell.

The room fell still. Nothing remained but the thin, ragged sound of her breathing.

Her phone screen lit up. A text from Homer.

Crystal visited an OB-GYN four months ago. She was confirmed six weeks pregnant at the time. Surveillance footage shows the man who accompanied her to the hospital was the victim from the perfume case.

Penelope stared at the message, and she laughed.

Luke had met Crystal four months ago. By then, she was already six weeks along.

Whose baby she was carrying needed no further explanation.

Penelope dragged herself up from the blood-slicked floor, shaking, and removed the hidden camera. She uploaded every piece of footage to her computer.

Backed up. Archived.

She felt as though she had died and come back.

When despair ran deep enough, the heart went still.