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Amid heavy breathing, Mom's angry voice came through.
“These hands belong to the same victim as the legs. The injuries are even worse—the killer is torturing her!”
“Judging by the hands and legs, the victim can't be more than twenty. What kind of monster would do this to a young girl?!”
Dad sounded calmer, but furious.
“The killer is careful. Even after leaving body parts at our doorstep twice, there's no evidence. Identifying the victim from just limbs will take time.”
“Even if we move fast, she's already lost her hands and feet… God, it's horrible!”
Another officer chimed in. “The killer knows the station layout. Leaving the remains here wasn't random—it's planned. He's mocking us. Taunting us.”
“Maybe we should look closer to home. The killer or the victim might be someone we know…”
Hearing that, I felt a flicker of hope.
Not just because of what he said, but because… there's a dark mole on my left middle finger.
Before my brother died, Mom used to hold my hand and say how pretty it was. She said even that mole was cute.
I waited, hoping she'd recognize my hand.
But she didn't. It was like she'd forgotten me.
The officer who'd mentioned me before spoke up again. “Hey Captain, you and your wife weren't home last night. Is Olivia okay?”
Dad's voice was ice. “Whatever happens to her, she brought it on herself.”
The officer lost his temper. “She's your daughter! Your son's death wasn't entirely her fault!”
Dad's voice shook with emotion.
“You saw the footage! One tap on the brakes would've saved him! But that idiot killed my son!”
“He was just starting out as a pilot! His whole future ahead of him! And because of her, he's gone! How could I not hate her?!”
“That useless, good-for-nothing mistake… She should've died when she was eight!”
My body convulsed from the pain. My heart turned cold.
Everything went blurry. I could barely breathe.
When I was eight, I got really sick. My parents were busy with work and didn't get me help in time. That's how my brain got damaged.
If my brother hadn't carried me to the hospital after school, I would've died.
After that, my parents always felt guilty. They'd hug me and say it was their fault. Even though I'd got stupid, I felt their love.
But after my brother died because of me, all their feelings changed.
They said, Why did that fever only damage my brain? Why didn't it just kill me?
They said, If they knew I'd kill my brother, they should've never saved me.
So every year on my brother's anniversary, they made me kneel in front of his memorial for a full day. No food. No water.
I never fought back.
If it made them feel better, I'd kneel forever.
When pain becomes normal, you learn to endure.
The basement fell silent again. Maybe the bug in my arm was found.
Lying in that dirty, dark basement, I held onto one last shred of hope.
It was the fourth day. Zane hadn't come back for hours.
Maybe my parents had caught Zane. Maybe that's why he hadn't come back…
But that hope shattered when the door opened.
It was still him.
Zane walked in with that rusty axe. But this time, he had my phone.
He sighed. “Four days. Your parents haven't even mentioned you. As your uncle, let me help you one last time.”
Then, with a cruel smile, he texted my parents from my phone.
“Let's play a game. If they reply and want to save you, I'll let you live. Deal?”
He didn't let me see what he sent.
Hours passed. Mom didn't reply.
Only Dad answered—impatient, angry: “Just die already. No one wants a murderer like you alive!”
I stared, hopeless. Couldn't tell if I was crying blood or tears.
Zane patted my cheek, fake pity in his voice:
“You know where I'm keeping you?
