Just as the serial killer was about to slip through our fingers, I, the city’s lead forensic psychologist, was in a psychiatric ward, playing chess with an old man. My phone buzzed. It was Lily, the deceptively sweet new consultant, her voice a desperate plea. “Dr. Reed, you’re the only one who can build a psychological profile fast enough to predict his escape route! We need you back at the precinct, now! Before it’s too late!” I hung up and sent her a photo of my recent diagnosis: Delusional Disorder. My reply was simple: “Sorry. Doctor’s orders. I’m not going anywhere.” In my last life, I’d practically lived at the crime scenes, working myself to the bone until I finally cracked the killer’s pattern and pinpointed his escape route. But when the tactical team swarmed the location, he was already gone. Miles away, another victim was found. “Some lead consultant,” they’d sneered. “A fraud in a fancy suit.” “If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen! Her incompetence just cost a woman her life!” My world had shattered. I tried to defend myself, to show them my notes, my meticulous chain of logic, but the pages I presented were a chaotic, nonsensical mess. It wasn't my work. Then my husband, Mark, stood before the review board and revealed my “history of mental illness.” They committed me. The family of the last victim believed I was the one to blame. One of them snuck into the hospital and strangled the life out of me in my bed. Even as my vision faded to black, I couldn’t understand it. I wasn't sick. My profile of the killer hadn't been wrong. I knew it. After my death, Lily took my place. The media hailed her as a brilliant prodigy, a “Goddess of the Mind.” Not long after, she and my husband, Mark, found love “forged in the crucible of justice,” as the tabloids put it. They became the power couple of law enforcement. Now, I’ve opened my eyes again, and I’m back. Back on the very day it all began. “Dr. Reed, your latest paper just got published in that prestigious international journal! You owe us all drinks tonight.” Lily’s familiar voice chirped from behind me. My body went rigid as I turned to face her. It was only the second day of my new life, and the whiplash was still severe. Oblivious to my state, Lily leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard the precinct is handing us the ‘Rainy Day Ripper’ case. This is the big one, Evie.” She smiled. “If you crack this, it’ll be your 689th solved homicide. You’ll shatter the all-time record.” I drew a sharp breath, but the words caught in my throat. Seeing my pale face, Lily pressed a thermos into my hands. “You’re so lucky to have a husband like Mark,” she said, her eyes shining with what I now knew was counterfeit envy. I unscrewed the lid. The thick, cloying scent of herbs and greasy chicken fat—Mark’s special “restorative broth” he insisted I drink to keep my strength up—assaulted my nostrils. The smell was so viscerally familiar that a cold shudder ran down my spine. In my last life, after Mark had me committed, the nurses would hold me down, forcing handfuls of chalky white pills into my mouth. I would never forget the bitter taste that seemed to seep into my very soul. Now, as I raised the thermos, the salty, greasy broth hit my tongue, and beneath it, I tasted it again—that same haunting, chemical bitterness. The soup was drugged. My mind flashed back. On that fateful day, I’d been too consumed by the case to eat. It was Lily who had opened this very thermos, smiling, watching me drink every last drop. A primal revulsion took over. I lurched forward, vomiting the mouthful of soup onto the floor. “Evie!” Lily cried, aghast. “Mark worked so hard on that for you! How could you just spit it out?” After I’d heaved the last of it, I slowly raised my head, my eyes locking onto hers. I had trained her, mentored her, treated her like a little sister. I’d bought her birthday gifts, celebrated her small victories, given her every piece of myself I could share. And this was how she repaid me. A viper I had warmed at my own hearth. It’s always the ones you least suspect, the ones you let inside your walls, who can deliver the fatal blow. Lily was one. And Mark… Mark was the other. My own husband, under the guise of caring for me, had been slowly poisoning my mind. He’d laid the groundwork for my downfall, so that when the time was right, he could be the first to declare me insane, citing a non-existent “family history” of mental illness. I looked at the girl tugging at my sleeve, feigning concern, and my heart filled with a cold, desolate grief. I finally knew the source of my “madness” from my past life. But that still didn't explain the other piece of the puzzle. How had my profile of the killer been so wrong? My intuition, honed over hundreds of cases, screamed at me that there was more to it. Something I still wasn’t seeing. “Mark made me promise to watch you finish it,” Lily pouted, her big, innocent eyes pleading with me. Just then, the office door creaked open, and Professor Albright, my old mentor, peeked his head in. “Ah, Lily, what’s all the commotion?” His gaze fell to the thermos on my desk, and a strange, knowing look flickered in his eyes. “Mark is such a devoted husband. Always making sure his brilliant wife is taken care of.” I picked up the thermos. Meeting both Lily’s and the professor’s expectant stares, I poured the broth into three separate mugs. “I’d feel terrible drinking this all by myself,” I said with a thin smile. “Since you’re both here, you should try some of Mark’s handiwork.” I offered the mugs to them. Their faces froze. A wave of panic washed over them, so palpable it was almost visible. I watched them, my gaze unwavering, dissecting every twitch, every flicker of fear. Their hands trembled as they took the mugs. They’d lift them towards their lips, then hesitate, lowering them again. Lily was ghost-white, unable to even look at the soup. The truth was as clear as day. I let out a sigh and downed the remaining broth in my own mug in one go. “It’s gotten cold anyway. Too greasy,” I announced, forcing a grimace. “Let’s not bother. I’ll have Mark make a fresh batch for you all another time.” They practically fled the office, their footsteps echoing down the hall as they scrambled to get away. Once I was sure they were gone, I ran to the restroom and forced myself to throw up, rinsing my mouth until the bitter taste was gone. Professor Albright. In my last life, I’d suspected everyone but him—the fair, the just, the man who had shaped my entire career. But his face just now told me everything. He knew. He was a part of it. But why? The question echoed in the hollows of my mind. As I stood there, lost in thought, a text from Mark lit up my phone. “The Rainy Day Ripper case is yours. You HAVE to solve it. This is my shot at the Deputy Director position. Don’t screw it up.” A chill, colder than any winter frost, settled deep in my bones. It was him. For a promotion, he had pushed me to take the case, only to throw me to the wolves when the operation failed, branding me a lunatic. I thought of our life together, from college sweethearts to this… this venomous betrayal. A lump formed in my throat, and I fought back the tears that threatened to fall. My protégée. My mentor. My husband. They all wanted the same thing: to see me ruined, disgraced, and utterly destroyed. But how had they orchestrated it all? I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The sharp sting of pain forced me to focus, to replay every single detail of my last life. No matter how many times I went over it, I couldn't find the flaw in my logic. I spread my old notes out on the desk, the key data points from the case laid bare. I ran the simulations again and again. I was certain. My profile had been perfect. As I stared blankly at the papers, Lily scurried back into my office, a sealed evidence file in her hand. “Everyone was fighting for this one, Dr. Reed,” she said, her voice bright and cheerful. “I made sure to grab it for you.” She placed the file on my desk like a prize. My phone chimed again. Another text from Mark. “Eve, I already told my parents about the promotion. You have to land this case. For us.” Lily stood before me, her eyes wide with anticipation, waiting for me to accept. I couldn't meet her gaze. I turned away. “Lily, I’m not feeling well. I need to rest. We can talk about this later.” A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, but she masked it quickly with a flurry of feigned concern before finally leaving. The moment she was gone, I was out the door. I hailed a cab and headed straight for the best psychiatric hospital in the city. On the way, I sent a text to a trusted friend—a retired detective—with the key profile points on the suspect. His reply came back almost instantly, followed by a series of photos. There he was: the man I had identified, a disheveled figure in a dark rain slicker, lurking near the crime scenes late at night. It was him. This was the man who had not only murdered a dozen young women but had also become the final nail in my coffin. But how did he know my plan? Who would go so far as to leak operational details to a serial killer, just to destroy me? My mind raced, a maelstrom of confusion and dawning horror. As I glanced in the car’s rearview mirror, an idea sparked, so shocking and so perfect that it took my breath away. Could that be it? I had the driver pull over. My fingers flew across the screen as I typed out my new theory, a detailed breakdown of the conspiracy, and sent it to my friend. His reply was two simple words: On it. Just to be safe, I made one more call—to a private investigator I’d used before. I gave him three targets to tail: Lily, Mark, and Professor Albright.
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