Forensic Doctor Face Slapping Maiikling Kwento at Nobela

A serial killer who had been on the run for five years kidnapped my son, Fraser Robertson. A time bomb was strapped to his body. With only ten minutes left, the kidnapper gave us a final warning. "Get your forensic pathologist husband here now, or I'll blow up your only son." My mother, Daphne Vanderbilt, used every connection she had to send the city's SWAT team to the scene, ready to storm the building. My husband's parents, Walter and Helen Robertson, offered up their entire fortune to negotiate with the kidnapper and buy Fraser's freedom. I desperately called my husband, Sebastian Robertson, over and over. It took more than a dozen calls before he finally answered. But after hearing what happened, he said seriously, "Fiona, someone broke into Nancy's house. I'll stay with her until the police arrive, then I'll come straight to you. Don't worry. The kidnapper wants me. They won't hurt Fraser." Then I heard Nancy Lightfoot's frightened voice through the phone. "Sebastian, I'm so scared..." The call ended. Time slowly passed. Now there were only ten seconds left. I stared at the countdown on the bomb in despair. Sebastian wasn't going to make it in time to save Fraser.

After three years of pursuing Patrick Doyle, he finally agrees to marry me. During the ceremony, while we are exchanging rings, he suddenly pulls out his gun and presses the muzzle against my dad, Jacob Walker's, head. "Damn you, you evil drug dealer! You killed my mentor, badge number 66205. Put down your gun and surrender. I'll let you live." As soon as he finishes, his sister, Lena Doyle, screams. It startles Patrick, and he fires without hesitation. A bullet pierces through Dad's forehead, and his body crashes down into a pool of blood. His eyes remain wide open even in death. My white wedding dress is soaked through with blood. Just like that, my family is shattered. I go from being a wealthy heiress in Hinton to the daughter of a criminal. Patrick gets his honors while my family lies in ruins. He looks at me in his uniform, his eyes cold. "Ariana Walker, your dad may be a criminal, but you're innocent. We're married now. I'll ask them to go easy on you." I look down and hold tight to the badge Dad left behind. Who's really guilty here?

My name is Mark Thompson. Not long after I became a mortician, I came down with a strange condition. The moment I touch a corpse, I see their final memories play out before my eyes. It's not that I enjoy sticking my nose into other people's business. Those visions just force their way into my head. The first body my mentor ever had me restore belonged to a wealthy young man who'd been mangled in a car crash. The second I touched his shattered neck, I couldn't stop myself from saying something to the grieving family beside me. "His car didn't malfunction. The brake line was cut. "The cutters are still hidden beneath the spare tire in his wife's trunk." The crying stopped instantly, and everyone turned to stare at the woman who had been pretending to mourn. Two weeks later, she was arrested. She had hired someone to kill her husband and staged the murder as a traffic accident. After that, people from both sides of the law started lining up outside the funeral home in the middle of the night.