The Last Call She Made

They say that after death, souls go where they're supposed to go.

Mine didn't.

I remained in the wind, hovering over Lake Michigan, watching uniformed people fish my remains from the lake water—a headless torso, pale and bloated, like some grotesque mannequin discarded in the waves. The entire crime scene reeked of blood and decay.

They called in Philip.

My husband, a Chicago Police detective, walked into the crime scene with a furrowed brow.

I hovered, observing Philip as he earnestly inquired into the details of the case, my heart a tempest of mixed emotions.

Even in death, I had once again become his burden.

As I observed his grim expression while he scrutinized my mutilated body, an indescribable chill washed over me.

Philip, this is the last time I'll cause you trouble.

Medical examiner Alton was crouched beside my body conducting a preliminary examination. Philip approached him: "What are we looking at here?"

"Female, early thirties," Alton looked up at him, his face grim. "Been in the water at least 48 hours. DNA will take two days, but—" he hesitated, "the head was removed post-mortem. Clean cut, professional. Someone knew what they were doing."

The scene fell silent.

A rookie cop turned away, hand over his mouth. "Jesus Christ."

Another officer muttered: "What kind of sick fuck does this?"

Philip's jaw tightened: "The kind we're going to put away for life. I want every camera feed within five miles, every witness statement, everything."

Philip's uncle Joe approached, concern etched on his weathered face. Joe was also a police captain at the precinct, and had been taking care of Philip since his parents died.

"Phil," Joe said carefully, "today's your anniversary, isn't it? You and Evelyn were supposed to—"

Philip cut him off sharply: "Forget it. She made her choice clear." His voice turned cold. "I've got real work to do. Besides, Sophia's expecting me tonight for her birthday."

My heart twisted at his casual dismissal. Ever since the miscarriage and my father's death, Philip has treated me like a ghost he's already buried. He blamed me for everything—for losing the baby, for being weak, for still breathing.

I remembered the night Philip met psychologist Sophia. A consultation on a serial case. He came home talking about how "brilliant" she was, how she "really understood" him.

And just like that, I became invisible.

Even now, standing over an unidentified woman's desecrated corpse, all he could think about was Sophia's goddamn birthday party.

If he knew this headless body was mine, would he even pause? Or would he simply clock out and go buy her flowers?

Joe's face darkened. He wasn't buying it.

He grabbed Philip's arm roughly: "Listen to yourself. That woman waits up for you every night. She packs your lunch at 5 AM even though you barely look at her. When's the last time you actually went home, you selfish prick?"

Philip jerked his arm free: "That's enough, Joe. My marriage is none of your business." He turned to his partner Gary, dismissing the conversation entirely. "Run the missing persons database. Cross-reference with dental records when we get the head."

Gary, a young detective still learning the ropes, nodded: "Already checked. No MPs matching the description in the past week."

Philip's brow furrowed: "That doesn't track. A woman goes missing for days and nobody reports it? Check again. Expand the radius."

By lunch, Joe was pacing. Something was eating at him.

He cornered Philip by the evidence van: "Where's Evelyn? She hasn't brought your lunch all week. That's not like her."

Philip barely looked up from his notes: "Maybe she finally got tired of playing housewife. Can't say I'm surprised."

Joe's voice rose: "Bullshit. That girl would walk through fire for you, and you know it. Something's wrong. Call her. Now."

Philip slammed his notebook shut: "You want to know what's wrong? She's sulking because I wouldn't skip Sophia's dinner to deal with whatever drama she cooked up this time. She called me three days ago, crying about God knows what. I told her I was done with the manipulation games. She hung up on me."

That phone call. My last desperate attempt to reach him while bound and bleeding in a concrete basement. My screams he mistook for hysteria.

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but Philip's phone interrupted with a bright, cheerful ringtone.

His entire demeanor shifted. The hard lines of his face softened. His voice dropped to something almost tender.