Chapter 2

I frantically shoved the folder back into the hidden compartment, threw the books back into place, and stood up just as the study door swung open.

Julian stood in the doorway, watching me.

He was wearing a dark gray dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a warm, gentle smile on his face.

"Hazel, what are you doing in here?"

"I... I was just cleaning up the study," I said, my voice tight and strained. "You said I could, right?"

"I did." He walked into the room, cast a brief glance at the bookshelf, and then looked back at me. "Are you tired?"

"No."

"Why is your face so pale?"

"Maybe... maybe a slight dizzy spell. My blood sugar might be low."

He immediately stepped forward, gently gripping my shoulders. "Then stop cleaning. Go sit on the couch. I'll get you some orange juice."

His hands on my shoulders were warm and firm.

Just like they always were.

But right now, his hands felt like the claws of a predator, ready to tighten at any second and snap my neck.

"Okay," I whispered.

He guided me out of the study, pressed me gently into the living room sofa, and walked into the kitchen to grab the drink.

I sat there, my entire body stiff.

My mind was screaming with the details of those six files.

Six women.

Six accidents.

Seven years.

An average of one death per year.

Every single one of them died in a way that left his hands completely clean.

What was he?

How did he do it?

Why did no one ever notice?

How was he still walking free?

Julian walked back into the living room, sat down beside me, and handed me the glass.

"Drink it slowly."

I took the glass and took a small sip.

The juice was sweet.

But I couldn't taste a thing.

"Hazel," he said suddenly, his voice quiet. "Did you find something?"

My hand jerked. The juice almost spilled onto my lap.

"W-what?"

He looked at me. His eyes were incredibly gentle, like he was looking at a piece of fragile porcelain.

"I saw the study door open," he said. "Did you open the hidden compartment?"

I raised my head to meet his eyes.

His eyes were a deep, warm hazel, catching the light like polished amber.

There was no malice in them. Only a calm, quiet curiosity.

As if he were simply asking what I wanted for dinner.

"I..." The words caught in my throat.

He let out a soft sigh.

He reached out, gently took the glass from my hands, and set it on the coffee table.

"Hazel," he said, "I was planning on telling you eventually."

Telling me what?

That you killed six people?

Or that I’m supposed to be number seven?

He took my hand in his.

His hand was large and warm, completely wrapping around mine.

"Those women," he said. "You saw them?"

I nodded slowly.

"Do you think I killed them?"

I couldn't speak.

He let out a dry, bitter laugh.

"Hazel, if I told you I didn't kill them, would you believe me?"

I stared at him, my mind blank.

He sighed again.

Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled through it for a moment, and turned the screen toward me.

On the screen was a post.

The headline was: **[My husband’s first six wives are all dead. I’m number seven.]**

It was the exact same post I had seen at 2:00 AM.

The username of the poster: Hazel.

Date of post: Three years ago.

I froze.