Ten years, and he'd opened that folder more times than he could count.
But the ring itself—the one they'd pried from what was left of my flesh—he could never bring himself to look at again.
Curt couldn't let himself remember sitting down and writing those words on the autopsy report: *no significant investigative evidence found on the remains.*
He closed his eyes, then walked back into the interrogation room.
On the other side of the wall, the Forensics Unit was rapidly narrowing down the search, closing in on the kidnapper's location.
I followed close behind Curt, watching him put on his mask of grief, and ground my teeth.
I wanted to reach out and slap him across the face, ten times over.
My hand went right through him.
The clock read ten thirty.
After several rounds of back-and-forth, Curt was visibly agitated, pacing the room.
"What the hell do you want me to say?!"
"If it saves Bernice, I'll die. I'll do whatever you want!"
The kidnapper blinked, then burst out laughing.
"Professor Baxter, you know exactly what to say."
He mimed swirling a reagent bottle.
Curt went rigid.
Of course he knew.
The reagent bottle was where it all started.