Dead Before He Said Sorry

Quinn’s POV

I was murdered. My body was dumped on the riverbank.

The detective leading the case is Brennan Carter — my husband. He has sworn to find the killer of this "unidentified female." He doesn't know the victim is me.

I've been missing for seven days. My colleagues and supervisors keep calling Brennan to ask where I am. Dismissing it as a tantrum, he's spent the week doing one thing: celebrating his mistress Tessa's birthday.

It wasn't until my phone turned up at the crime scene that it finally hit him — the wife he'd wished would disappear might actually be gone.

My soul hovers overhead, watching the body on the riverbank — my body — splayed in the mud beneath a sheet of plastic tarp, discarded like trash.

The crowd keeps its distance, trading hushed, unsettled murmurs. Fear and morbid excitement, all tangled together. It turns my stomach.

The case is bad enough to pull in the department's best — Brennan Carter. My husband.

Even as a ghost, I feel the old reflex: guilt. Sorry to drag you into this, Brennan.

"Time of death confirmed?" His voice is rough — nicotine and black coffee.

His assistant, Isaac Cohen, looks worse than my corpse. "Captain Carter, the victim is female, estimated mid-thirties. Prolonged submersion caused severe epidermal slippage — fingerprinting is out. We're waiting on DNA, three days minimum. No matches in the missing persons database. She's a Jane Doe for now."

"Cause of death?"

Brennan crouches down — close enough that, if I were still alive, I'd catch the sharp bite of his aftershave.

Isaac draws a slow breath, steadying himself. "Not drowning. The perpetrator used surgical suture thread to sew her eyelids shut while she was still alive. Her left ear canal was filled with fast-setting industrial cement. Then, with a heavy blunt instrument, he methodically — patiently — shattered every bone in her body. One by one."

Silence.

Brennan stands abruptly, strips off his latex gloves, and hurls them into the mud. "Lock down the scene. Every camera within a two-mile radius — I want footage on my desk in an hour. Whoever did this, I don't care if he crawled up from hell — I'll send him back there myself."

I drift above him, watching my husband's eyes go red over a nameless corpse. Watching him swear revenge.

If he knew who was under that tarp, he'd laugh. Maybe land a kick. Then walk away. Because no one in this world wanted Quinn Carter gone more than he did.

"Brennan, this one's going to be a grind." Deputy Connor Chambers cuts in — the only person who knows the truth about our marriage. His exhaustion is barely hidden. "Quinn's promotion dinner is in three days. You sure you want to personally take this on right now? For the two of you, the timing—"

At the sound of my name, the heat drains from Brennan's eyes, replaced by something colder. Something bone-deep.

"Don't say that name in front of me." He pulls out his cigarette case; the lighter clicks in his hand. "All she ever cared about was status and her career. I'm not going to any dinner — Tessa's birthday is in three days. I promised her."

It cuts through me sharper than any of my broken bones. Tessa. The woman who lost a daughter, just like I did — and somehow walked away with every ounce of warmth Brennan had to give. While I became the one who killed his daughter. The one who could never be forgiven.

Connor loses his composure. He grabs Brennan by the arm. "Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what Quinn has done for you? Who stockpiles your antacids when your stomach acts up? Who drops your coat off for cleaning every single week? You are ungrateful."

"Enough." Brennan wrenches free. His eyes go cold and feral. "Save the cheap sympathy. What she does isn't love — it's penance. She thinks washing a few shirts and dropping off some pills balances out what she did to Lucia? Not a chance. There is nothing — nothing — she could ever do that I would forgive."

Silence settles over the riverbank. Somewhere distant, a siren wails.

Brennan exhales and drags the conversation back to the body, as if one more second on the subject of me would soil his mouth. "Isaac — any recent reports of adult women missing in the area?"

"Already checked. Nothing."

A short, contemptuous laugh. His gaze sweeps across the tarp. "This woman was tortured. She's been gone at least two days. And her family hasn't filed a single report." He shakes his head. "Maybe they're glad she's dead."

I float there in silence, listening to him condemn the negligent family — himself.

Connor's frown deepens. Something professional stirs behind his eyes. "Speaking of missing — Quinn always has your antacids and a pressed shirt on your desk by Friday. I passed your office just now. The desk was bare. Two years, Brennan. She's never once missed it — not even the time you threw her out."

"She's playing games." Brennan flicks his ash, a thin smirk crossing his face. "I asked her to come to Tessa's birthday party a few days ago. She refused. Now she's sulking somewhere, waiting to see if I'll come crawling back over a few shirts." He scoffs. "Pathetic."

"But what if—"

His phone rings, cutting Connor off.

Brennan glances at the screen. The furrow in his brow smooths out.

When he answers, his voice goes soft.