After My Murder, My Husband Hunted Them Down

The third murder happened right after the seminar let out—the body found in the alley behind the venue.

Curt thought it was me. He came tearing through the crowd like something inside him had snapped loose.

We locked eyes across the police tape, and his went red in an instant.

"Millie... if you died, I wouldn't go on living."

"Let's get married."

I nodded through my tears.

So foolish then. Still believing love could last forever.

I stared at the new wedding ring on Curt's hand, turning it over and over in my mind, unable to understand.

How the moon could hang so bright and full, yet never shine for me alone.

After the wedding, Curt was appointed as a special-hire professor at Seabrook University.

Of his first batch of students, Bernice Barnes stood out from the start.

Her parents were divorced, her family had nothing, and she had nowhere to go during breaks. I felt sorry for her and let her stay with us.

As the days wore on, I began to realize something was wrong with her.

Expensive jewelry kept vanishing from the dressing room.

We had a housekeeper, but Bernice acted as though the woman didn't exist. She took pleasure in ordering me around instead.

If I refused, she'd throw a screaming fit:

"I have depression! You hear me? If anyone upsets me, I'll kill myself!"

"And when I do, it's on you—you and Professor Baxter both. That's blood on your hands. Is that how a teacher treats her students?"

Her gaze drifted past me and settled on Curt's face.

Not pleading. Triumphant.

A thief's eyes—someone who'd already claimed my home and was sizing up my husband.

After that, the "accidents" started.

She swapped the potted plants in the guest room for fresh-cut flowers.

The allergic reaction nearly killed her. She ended up in the hospital, missed her thesis defense entirely—then told everyone I'd done it on purpose to sabotage her graduation.

Walking down the stairs, she would suddenly collapse.

And she'd let everyone blame me for pushing her, for being cruel and vicious.

To help her finish her degree, I invited her to assist in the lab so she could earn extra credits.

She turned around and upended an entire bottle of sulfuric acid over me.

I screamed, thrashing across the floor as my body seized, and felt my baby leave me right there on the tile.

When Bernice heard the sirens, she poured what was left in the bottle over her own face.

Blood ran down her cheeks as the flesh bubbled and hissed, and she was still smiling.

"Millie, you only lost a baby. Me? I lost my whole face."

"So tell me—who do you think he'll feel sorry for?"

When I woke again, the hospital room was empty.

I lay there a long time before I finally signed the papers dropping the charges.

She was young, and she was mentally ill. I had no intention of pressing charges. I just never wanted to see her again.

But when I found my way to Bernice's ward, I heard her voice through the door—that syrupy, little-girl whine she saved for him.

"Professor Baxter, I only got hurt because of your wife, you know. So you have to look after me for the rest of my life, okay?"

And my husband didn't even pause.

"Of course I will. As long as you still trust me."

Of course Bernice trusted him. I was the one who didn't—not anymore, not ever again.

Just then, Captain Carter pushed the door open.

"Professor Baxter, no one else has been in or out of your house."

"But the kidnapper's signal traces back to the Baxter residence. Have you considered that Bernice might have staged the whole thing herself?"

At the mention of Bernice, even the most even-tempered old officer at the precinct darkened.

"Suicide threats every other day. Nobody can talk her down except Professor Baxter."

After Bernice moved into our home, it only got worse.

Some nights she'd show up at the master bedroom door clutching her blanket, begging Curt to coax her to sleep.

I'd told Curt she needed to see a doctor.

He cut me off, irritated.

"She's terrified of doctors. What do you want, to drive her to actually do it?"

"When did you lose every shred of compassion?"

I was five months pregnant when the doctor told me something might be wrong with the baby.

I planned to go back for a follow-up that weekend.

But outside the obstetrics ward, I ran straight into Curt—who was supposed to be on a business trip out of town.

He pressed his lips together and stepped back, the look of a man retreating into innocence.