Chapter 2

Behind me, the students' shrill screams pierced the air, mixed with repeated sounds of retching.

Everyone was slumped across the floor, staring at me in shock. The second-floor lab had exploded.

Owen's face was deathly pale, panic flickering in his eyes.

Heavy footsteps suddenly sounded from the stairwell. It was my wife, Bertha Cobb.

It was summer break. Most students had already gone home, and only Owen's group was still working in the lab, so the explosion hadn't endangered anyone else.

Bertha immediately rushed over to Owen's side, her eyes filled with alarm. "Owen, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

In a daze, Owen shook his head.

"Call the police! Get an ambulance!" I shouted.

Only then did some of the students snap out of their shock. Trembling, they reached for their phones, only to realize they had left them outside the third-floor lab.

Phones weren't allowed inside the chemistry labs, precisely to prevent accidents.

Seeing the blood and flesh scattered across the floor, the students ran out screaming, leaving just the three of us adults at the scene.

"No! We can't call the police!" Owen exclaimed. He'd suddenly snapped to his senses, shaking his head violently, his face pale.

"Owen Rountree, your data caused this explosion! Why wouldn't we call the police or the ambulance?" I roared, fury burning across my face.

Before he could say anything, Bertha jumped in first.

"What are you implying, Robert?" she snapped, standing in front of Owen. "You're the professor! You should be the one taking the main responsibility for this accident!"

I watched as she stood on the opposite side of me—just like she had in my previous life. When all eight students died in that explosion, she had stood in front of Owen, demanding I shoulder the primary blame.

Then, when I told the media that I shared responsibility for the tragedy, she and Owen immediately pinned all the fault on me. Unable to defend myself right away, I was nailed to the cross of shame.

Under the relentless condemnation of reporters, I was cyberbullied. The police also interrogated me based on my own admission.

With eight students dead, the incident drew massive public attention.

Even though the university didn't want to lose someone like me, who was a world science competition champion, they had no choice but to fire me.

Because of this catastrophic event, the parents of the eight students tied me up and set me on fire. While I was on my last breath and in agony, they strapped a bomb to me, blowing me to pieces.

My daughter, Leah Callahan, was ostracized and bullied by her classmates because of me. She eventually dropped out of school and died of depression.

Meanwhile, the true culprit, Owen, took my place and became the youngest professor in the university.

My wife, Bertha, completely ignored our daughter, obsessed only with her first love, Owen. A week had passed before our neighbors noticed the stench of Leah's dead body.

Thinking of it now, I felt as though my heart were bleeding. How could Bertha treat Leah, the daughter I cherished so much, that way?

The two of them leaned against each other. Bertha was still trying to persuade, even threaten, me.

"This was just a minor accident. Only one person died. You're the youngest professor—the university won't do anything to you. At most, they'll make you pay some compensation.

"But Owen's different. He'll be fired. The student's dead anyway. Are you really going to divorce me because of this?"