Better Dead Than Married

When Edmond dug us out from under that old house, Ariel and I felt something shift—like our souls finally exhaled.

We shot each other a look, a small smile. Edmond and Philip were circling the corpses, clueless.

Edmond—my genius husband, top of the forensic game—stared at my body like he'd just smacked into a brick wall.

Then came those too-familiar hands on his shoulders. Keyla Manson.

She leaned in, syrupy-sweet. "What's wrong? Bodies giving even our star pathologist a hard time?"

His face stayed stone cold, but he gently pulled a sheet over me, then nodded to the assistant to move us to the autopsy room.

Only after we were gone did he speak, voice low to Philip.

"Feels... cruel."

I never thought he would be so emotional.

Edmond never talked much—unless it was about Keyla. That was his favorite subject.

I almost laughed, but the hate hit harder.

On my birthday, I'd waited. He never came home. Then the cramps started. Blood. Panic. I grabbed my phone, hoping he'd rush me to the hospital.

It just rang. Then that robotic voice: "The number you've dialed is currently unavailable."

I froze. No clue what to do—until he finally called back.

"I'm downstairs. You and Ariel, come now."

That was it. No explanation. I didn't ask for one. Ariel helped me down like she always did. We'd been tight since forever—then married into the same family. Sisters-in-law, best friends, inseparable.

So when Edmond said bring her, I did.

If I'd known this would be the end—our bodies ripped apart—I never would've called.

While the guilt crushed me, her hands slipped into mine. Ariel's voice was soft.

"We said forever, remember? You're not ditching me now."

I squeezed back. She was my anchor, even now. And I hated myself for not seeing the truth sooner. For ever tying myself to the Jahns.