A Wife's Tragic End, His Awakening

Ava Bell POV:

Carter knelt beside my body again, his gloved hand hovering over my cheek. His brow was furrowed, a flicker of something akin to sadness in his eyes.

"No one deserves this," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "No one deserves to die like this."

You say that now, Carter. But when I was alive, you were the one who pushed me towards it. I wondered what he would say if he knew it was me. Would he still claim I deserved better? Or would he twist it, somehow, to be my fault? He was a master at that too.

His gaze drifted from my face, down my arm. He stopped at my wrist. There, a small, faded tattoo. A delicate, winding vine, with tiny, almost imperceptible thorns. It curved around my wrist like a protective bracelet.

I had gotten it years ago, after a particularly harsh rejection from Cecelia. It was a symbol of resilience, of growing despite the pain. It was small, discreet, barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

I remembered Carter' s reaction to it. "What's that monstrosity, Ava?" he' d asked, his eyes filled with disdain. "Looks like something a troubled teenager would get. Can't you hide that with a watch? It's unprofessional."

Now, he stared at it. Will he recognize it? Will it finally click?

He leaned even closer, examining the faded lines. Then, he straightened up. "Just a tattoo," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Probably from years ago. Another irrelevant detail for the report."

My ghost heart sank. Of course. Irrelevant.

"Mr. Rios, we found this inside her." A forensic technician, a young man with glasses, approached, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside, nestled among folds of what looked like torn fabric, was a small, worn sketchbook.

Carter took it, his eyes narrowing in professional curiosity. He didn't open it immediately. "Analyze it," he ordered. "Every page. See if there are any clues, any names, anything that can help us identify her."

Just then, his phone vibrated. A distinct, melodic ringtone. Cecelia's. It was the only custom ringtone he had. He snatched it from his pocket, his stern expression immediately softening.

"Cecelia, darling. Are you alright?" His voice was laced with concern, a stark contrast to the cold efficiency he used for everyone else.

"Oh, Carter," Cecelia's voice, high-pitched and fragile, drifted from the phone. "I'm just so worried. About everything. This... this murder. It's so close to us. Are you safe? And Ava... have you heard from her?"

Her concern was a performance. I knew it. He didn't.

"I' m fine, sweetheart. Don't worry. I'll make sure you're safe," Carter promised, his eyes scanning the desolate condo, as if searching for an unseen threat to her. "As for Ava... she's probably just being dramatic again. Trying to get attention. You know how she is."

"Yes," Cecelia sighed dramatically. "Always causing trouble. I just hope she hasn't done anything to endanger herself, or worse, you, my love."

"She wouldn't dare," Carter scoffed. "She knows her place. If she's pulled one of her stunts, she'll regret it. Just focus on resting, Cecelia. I love you. I'll be home as soon as I can."

He hung up, the tenderness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He looked at the sketchbook in his hand, his eyes hardening.

"Find out what this girl was up to," he commanded the technician, referring to my lifeless body. "And quickly. We can't have this distraction on our hands."

Distraction. That's all I ever was to him. A distraction. Even in death. His words, overheard by my observing spirit, were a fresh wound, a confirmation of his unwavering blindness.