Tethered Spirit: Bound To My Murderer Husband

Benedict POV

The next morning, the hospital vibrated with a suppressed, grim energy.

I hovered in the corner of Benedict's office, watching him stare blankly at his computer screen. The internal incident report was open, glowing with cold, blue light.

Subject: Deceased Pediatric Patient.

Cause of Death: Anaphylactic shock secondary to venomous snake bite. Delayed treatment.

Benedict scrolled down, his movements mechanical.

Patient Name: Jeremy Fuller.

His hand paralyzed over the mouse.

Fuller.

My last name.

He blinked—once, twice—as if trying to clear a hallucination. Then, his eyes drifted to the date of birth.

July 14th.

I saw the color drain from his face, leaving him ashen. July 14th. Jeremy's birthday was next week.

A memory flickered, sharp and painful. I remembered finding a browser tab open on Benedict's laptop months ago—a search for a limited-edition Ultraman figure. He knew. Somewhere in the deep recesses of that self-absorbed brain, he had actually remembered his son's birthday.

"Jeremy," he whispered.

The name sounded foreign on his tongue, heavy with a sudden, crushing weight.

My spirit hovered near the ceiling, looking down at the man I had once loved. I felt a surge of grief, not for him, but for Jeremy. My baby had wanted that toy so badly.

A sharp knock broke the silence, and the door swung open before Benedict could answer.

Yvonne entered, carrying two steaming coffees. She looked fresh, rested, and immaculate. A perfect mask.

"Morning, darling," she chirped, her voice jarringly bright against the gloom. "I heard we lost a kid last night. So sad."

I wanted to claw her eyes out. I wanted to smash the scalding coffee cups against the wall and scream the truth into her face.

Benedict looked up at her, his eyes unfocused, swimming in shock.

"The boy..." Benedict’s voice cracked. "His name was Jeremy."

Yvonne did not flinch. Her heartbeat didn't even skip a rhythm. I could sense it from where I floated; she was ice cold, a void where a soul should be.

"Oh? That is a common name."

Benedict rubbed his face aggressively, trying to wake himself up.

"Jensen said there was a woman... at the entrance."

Yvonne set the coffee down on the desk with a deliberate, calm click. She walked over and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging the tension with practiced ease.

"Ben, you are overthinking. It was a crazy night," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "That woman was unhinged. She was screaming obscenities. Francis had to step in to protect the staff."

The lies spilled from her lips as easily as breath.

Benedict leaned back into her touch. He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to believe her. It was infinitely easier to accept the lie than to face the devastating truth staring him in the face.

"You are right," he murmured, his resistance crumbling. "I am just tired."

Suddenly, the office door burst open.

There was no knock. No polite warning.

An older man in a bespoke, tailored suit strode in, bringing a storm with him. The air in the room shifted instantly, heavy with authority and rage. It was William Sinclair, the hospital CEO. Benedict's father.

He looked furious. But beneath the fury, he looked terrified.

"Dad?" Benedict stood up, startled. "What is wrong?"

William ignored him entirely. He marched straight to the desk and slammed a piece of paper down on top of the incident report.

SLAM.

It was a missing persons flyer. My face. Jeremy's face.

"Where are they?" William demanded, his voice shaking with a volatile mix of fear and anger.

Benedict looked at the flyer, then back at his father, confusion clouding his grief.

"I... I do not understand."

"Security cameras," William barked, his eyes darting to Yvonne like a predator spotting prey. "I just watched the footage from last night. A woman matching her description came in carrying a child. And she never checked out."

Yvonne's hands stilled on Benedict's shoulders. The massage stopped.

William turned his full, withering gaze onto Yvonne. It was a look that could peel the paint off the walls.

"And the footage shows you, Yvonne. It shows you and your brother blocking the door."

I felt a sudden, sharp pull in my chest. My father-in-law—my real family, in spirit if not in blood—was here. He was angry. He was looking for us.

For the first time since I died, amidst the cold fluorescent lights and the stench of betrayal, I felt a tiny spark of warmth.