To murder my husband, Richard Vance, I spent an entire year preparing. I smiled as I saw him off on his mountain expedition. I had secretly swapped his GPS for a dummy model that would never emit a signal, ensuring he would vanish forever in the treacherous, uninhabited wilderness. I coldly calculated the timeline of him getting lost, succumbing to hypothermia, and eventually dying of sheer exhaustion. The plan was flawless. I had even prepared my eulogy for his funeral. Ten days later, the search and rescue team called. The voice on the other end was bone-chilling: "Mrs. Vance, we found your husband. However, there is another body right next to him." When the phone rang, I was trimming a dying pothos plant in the living room. It was Richard’s favorite plant. He used to say green represented vitality and brought good luck to his business. What he didn't know was that every single day, I watered its roots with boiling water. I watched it wither day by day, just as I imagined Richard’s life slowly draining away in the snowy mountains. The caller ID showed an unknown number from the state where Richard had gone climbing. It’s time. My heart started to pound—not out of fear, but from a suppressed, overwhelming ecstasy that was about to burst out of my chest. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound perfectly hoarse and trembling, like a woman who had spent countless days and nights washing her face with tears. "Hello?" The voice on the other end was steady and cold, carrying a sort of official detachment. "Is this Harper Evans, Mrs. Vance? We are calling from the Mountain Search and Rescue Team." I covered my mouth, squeezing out broken sobs, perfectly mimicking a wife anxiously awaiting news of her husband. "Yes... it's me! Is there... is there news about Richard?" The man hesitated for a moment, seemingly choosing his words carefully. "Yes, Mrs. Vance. We found your husband." Found. That word was like a key, instantly unlocking the dark cellar in my heart. Countless fireworks exploded in my mind, every single one spelling out the word "Freedom." I almost laughed out loud, quickly covering it up with more violent sobbing. "Is... is he okay?" I asked the question knowing the answer, relishing this final, cruel game. The line went silent again, this time for a little longer. "Mrs. Vance, I am so sorry for your loss. Mr. Vance has no vital signs." My body went limp, and I allowed myself to slide down onto the carpet. The phone slipped from my grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud. I let out a gut-wrenching wail into the empty air. If you're going to act, you have to commit to the bit. My neighbors had likely heard my continuous crying over the past few days. Now, this wail was the grand finale of the show. I picked up the phone, continuing my performance with a voice ragged from crying: "How... how could this happen... He said the route was perfectly safe..." "Mrs. Vance." The man interrupted my performance, a strange undertone in his voice. "The situation at the scene is... a bit complicated." "There is another body next to him." My heart plummeted. The blood in my veins seemed to freeze instantly. A body? That bastard! Richard actually took his mistress out there to fool around! A sick sense of satisfaction washed over me, mixed with the humiliation of betrayal and the thrill of revenge. Good riddance! They deserved to die! That cheating pair deserved to be buried together in the freezing snow, never to return! I suppressed the upward twitch of my lips, asking with a trembling voice, blending the humiliation and pain of a "victim wife": "Is it... is it a woman?" The man on the phone—who I later learned was Detective Miller—fell silent once more. This time, his voice was colder than a Siberian blizzard. "It's a male." Boom— My mind went completely blank. Every pore on my body stood on end from sudden, sheer terror. Not a mistress? A man? Who could it be? There was never a second man in my plan. From scouting the route and tracking the weather, to researching Richard’s physical limits and swapping the GPS, every step had been simulated thousands of times in my head. It was supposed to be perfect. Foolproof. This extra man was like a nuclear bomb dropping out of nowhere, threatening to obliterate my entire world. Who was he? A hiking buddy Richard made plans with? Impossible. Richard was arrogant and selfish; he never hiked with others. He loved the thrill of conquering nature alone. A random hiker who had an accident? Then why would he die right next to Richard? Or... or did he know about my plan? That thought made my blood run cold. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. My brain raced through the storm of panic, running through a million possibilities. Every single one pointed to a fatal, unpredictable flaw in my scheme. I forced myself to maintain my composure, asking with a trembling voice: "Who is he? Why would he... why would he be with my husband?" Detective Miller’s voice betrayed no emotion: "His identity is currently unknown. We need family members to come down and identify the remains. Also, Mrs. Vance, it's best if you come here immediately. Certain circumstances are quite... unique." He emphasized the word "unique." Hanging up the phone, I rushed to the bathroom, staring at my pale face in the mirror. On that face, the shell of grief I had carefully constructed over the past ten days showed its first hairline crack. Fear crawled up from the depths of my heart like ivy, wrapping tightly around my throat. I turned on the faucet, splashing freezing water on my face over and over, trying to force myself to calm down. Harper, pull yourself together. You planned this for a year. You cannot fall apart now. No matter who that man was, he was already dead. Dead men tell no tales. As long as I kept my mouth shut, no one would know about the GPS. Richard’s death would just be a tragic hiking accident. Yes, an accident. I repeated those words to myself in the mirror until the fear on my face was replaced by a dull numbness. I changed into a simple black outfit and wore no makeup. My pale, exhausted appearance would be my best disguise. Before I left the house, I took one last look at the pothos plant I had killed with my own hands. Its leaves were completely yellow and lifeless. How nice, I thought. It finally doesn't have to pretend to thrive anymore. Just like me. By the time I arrived at the city where the rescue team was headquartered, it was the afternoon of the next day. The air smelled strangely of bleach mixed with the scent of death. Detective Miller was waiting for me at the entrance. He was a tall man in his forties, with tanned skin and eyes as sharp as a hawk’s—eyes that looked like they could pierce straight into the darkest corners of a person’s soul. He skipped the pleasantries, simply looking me up and down before leading me toward the morgue. "Mrs. Vance, my condolences," he said, his voice even harder than it was on the phone. "What's inside might be disturbing. Please prepare yourself." I nodded, lowering my eyes to let my long lashes hide my emotions. The lighting in the morgue was a sterile, freezing white. The chill seeped into my bones from all directions. In the center of the room, two gurneys covered in white sheets lay side by side. My heart began to pound wildly. Detective Miller walked over to one of the gurneys and looked at me blankly. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The moment the white sheet was pulled back, Richard’s frostbitten, purplish face, contorted in agony, appeared before my eyes. His eyes were still open, filled with terror and bitterness, as if he had seen something unspeakably horrifying right before he died. My stomach churned, a strong wave of nausea rushing up my throat. It wasn't out of grief, but out of visceral, biological disgust. This face had appeared in my deepest nightmares countless times. He would smile and say the most vicious things in the gentlest tone. "Harper, you put too much salt in the fish today. So stupid." Then he would pour the scalding hot broth right over the back of my hand. "Harper, look at you. You can't even mop the floor right. What use was marrying you?" Then he would kick me hard in the stomach. "Harper, are you thinking about that broke ex-boyfriend of yours again? You're nothing but a cheap whore!" Then he would press a lit cigarette to my wrist, leaving behind brand after brand of shame. And now, he was finally dead. He died a miserable, ugly death. I should be thrilled. But I had to look devastated. I threw myself over his body, letting out a harrowing wail. My body trembled violently as I dry-heaved. The tears were real. They were tears of relief, pent up for five long years, finally breaking free. Detective Miller didn't comfort me. He just stood coldly to the side, waiting until my emotions settled slightly before pulling me away from Richard’s corpse. Then, he walked over to the other gurney. "Mrs. Vance, I need you to identify this man as well." My heart jumped into my throat. The white sheet was pulled back, revealing a face I completely didn't recognize. It was a man in his thirties, thin but with sharp features. His face was also a frostbitten purple. What was bizarre was that the corners of his mouth were turned up into a smile—a look of relief, almost satisfaction. I scrambled through my memories, but I was absolutely certain I had never seen this face before. I shook my head, my voice trembling with genuine fear: "No... I don't know him. I've never seen him before." This time, the fear was real. A stranger dying with a smile on his face, right next to my husband who died in absolute terror. The scene was too bizarre, like the opening of a cheap horror movie. Detective Miller didn't seem surprised by my reaction. He just nodded and signaled the medical examiner to cover the bodies back up. He led me out of the morgue and into an office. He poured me a cup of hot water. Then, from a locked cabinet, he pulled out a clear evidence bag and pushed it across the desk toward me. Inside the bag sat a black device I was far too familiar with. The dummy GPS tracker I had swapped out—the one that could never send a distress signal. My heart skipped a beat, the blood rushing straight to my head. My fingers tightened around the paper cup, but the scalding water couldn't chase away the ice in my palms. Still, I maintained my facade, looking at him with innocent confusion. "Detective Miller, what is this?" "Richard’s personal effects." Detective Miller stared unblinking into my eyes, every word hitting like a hammer. "A dummy GPS model. It can't emit a single signal. Mrs. Vance, do you know what that means?" I played the role of the naive, innocent wife who knew nothing about outdoor gear. "I don't know... He loved buying this kind of outdoor stuff. We have a lot of it at home. I really don't understand it." My voice sounded clueless and lost. Suddenly, Detective Miller let out a cold laugh. It was filled with undisguised mockery. From the cabinet, he pulled out a second, identical evidence bag, slamming it down heavily next to the first. "Is that so? What a coincidence. We found the exact same thing on the other victim." Boom— I felt the entire world spinning and collapsing in front of me. Two identical dummy GPS models. Two identical "murder weapons." My "trademark," my supposedly perfect murder method, had been duplicated. In a split second, I went from a mastermind controlling the board to a trapped participant in a bizarre mystery I couldn't explain. This was no longer a flawless murder. It was a chilling, inexplicable puzzle. My hands and feet went numb. My mind was completely blank. The psychological fortress I had so carefully built crumbled the moment I saw that second dummy GPS. The fluorescent lights in the interrogation room were blindingly white. They stretched my shadow long across the floor, making me look like a silent sinner. Detective Miller sat across from me. He didn't slam his hands on the table. He didn't yell. He just looked at me calmly with those sharp eyes. But every question he asked acted like a precision scalpel, peeling back my disguise layer by layer until he hit my deepest secrets. "Mrs. Vance, you used to enjoy mountain climbing too, didn't you?" He asked it casually, like making small talk. Alarm bells rang furiously in my head. I had never mentioned this to anyone, especially not after marrying Richard. How did he know? I steadied myself and admitted it: "Yes, I was into it back in college. But... I stopped after we got married." I tried to project the image of an ordinary woman bound by domestic life, someone who had abandoned her hobbies. Detective Miller nodded, seemingly accepting my answer. "So, you must know a fair bit about GPS and outdoor equipment, right?" There it is. His real target. My defense sounded weak: "Just the basics. I haven't touched the stuff in years. The gear updates so fast, I wouldn't know how to use the new models." I knew my background was already my first red flag. No matter how much I denied it, in the eyes of the police, I possessed the technical knowledge required to commit the crime. Detective Miller didn't linger on the topic. He smoothly transitioned and dropped his second bombshell. "We discovered that last month, you added a five-million-dollar accidental death policy to Richard’s life insurance. You are the sole beneficiary." My heart sank to rock bottom. That insurance policy was a crucial part of my plan. It was my safety net and the capital for my new life. But now, it was a blade pressing against my throat. "It... it was Richard's idea." I forced myself to stay calm, searching for the most reasonable excuse. "He loves extreme sports. He said it was just adding an extra layer of security for our family." I pushed the blame onto the dead man. Dead men can't argue. Detective Miller smiled. It was a knowing, profound smile. "Really? But we spoke to the insurance agent. He said you reached out to him, and you handled the entire process. He also mentioned that Mr. Vance didn't seem to know the specific details of the policy." I went freezing cold. It felt like all my blood had been drained. I never imagined that bastard Richard would complain about the insurance to an outsider. Or maybe this was just a bluff. Detective Miller was testing me. But I couldn't risk it. To Detective Miller, my silence was an admission of guilt. The fatal blow was yet to come. A young officer walked in and handed a file to Detective Miller. He glanced at it, then tossed it heavily onto the table in front of me. "Mrs. Vance, our cyber division recovered the last three months of browsing history from your home computer." My eyes fell on the document. Printed on the pages were the keywords I feared the most. "Remote hiking trails" "How long does it take to die from hypothermia" "How to block GPS signals" "How are hiking accidents classified" ... Every keyword was a glowing red chain, binding me tightly to the suspect's chair. My supposed brilliance, the tracks I so carefully erased in the dead of night... in the face of professional forensic technology, it was all a joke. They had become the noose around my neck, and the knot was tightening. Detective Miller leaned forward, resting his crossed hands on the table. His gaze was as sharp as a razor. "A massive insurance payout, specialized knowledge, a clear motive, and now two inexplicable dummy GPS trackers. Mrs. Vance, is there anything else you'd like to share?" My mind was a complete blank. All my defenses and lies were laughable and futile against this mountain of ironclad evidence. I was finished. My plan, my freedom, the new life I dreamed of—all of it was bursting like a soap bubble. Despair washed over me like a tidal wave. I could feel the freezing water rising above my head, stealing my last breath. The interrogation hit a dead end. I was like a butterfly trapped in a spider's web; no matter how I struggled, I couldn't break free from the layers of damning evidence. I gave up defending myself. I chose silence. Because I knew the more I spoke, the more mistakes I'd make. Just as I was hovering on the edge of despair, ready to accept this absurd fate, someone knocked on the interrogation room door. The young officer hurried in, whispered something in Detective Miller's ear, and handed him a folder. Detective Miller took the file and scanned it quickly. His furrowed brow slowly smoothed out, his expression turning incredibly complex. He looked up at me. His eyes held scrutiny, confusion, and something else... something hard to detect. He remained silent for a long time. So long I thought time had stopped. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and clear. "We've identified the second victim." My heart jumped, and my body involuntarily sat up straighter.
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