I Prepared His Funeral, Not His Secret

To murder my husband Ethan, I spent a full year preparing. I smiled as I sent my husband off on his mountain expedition. I had secretly swapped his GPS for a model that would never send out a signal, ensuring he’d disappear forever in the remote mountain region. I calmly calculated the time it would take for him to get lost, succumb to hypothermia, and finally die of exhaustion. The plan was perfect. I had even prepared the eulogy for his funeral. Ten days later, the rescue team called with news cold and piercing: “Miss Bailey, we found your husband. But there’s another body with him.” 0 The phone rang while I was pruning a dying pothos plant. It was Ethan’s favorite plant. He said green represented vitality and would bring good fortune to his career. What he didn’t know was that I watered its roots with boiling water every single day. I watched it wither day by day, just like watching Ethan’s life slowly drain away in those snowy mountains. The caller ID showed an unknown number from the province where Ethan had gone climbing. Here it comes. My heart pounded wildly—not from fear, but from a long-suppressed joy about to burst forth. I took a deep breath, letting my voice take on just the right amount of hoarseness and trembling, like the result of countless nights crying myself to sleep. “Hello?” The voice on the other end was steady and cold, with official detachment. “Is this Victoria Bailey? We’re from the mountain rescue team.” I covered my mouth, squeezing out broken sobs, perfectly mimicking a wife anxiously awaiting news of her husband. “Yes… yes, it’s me! Is there… is there news about my husband Ethan?” The person on the other end fell silent for a moment, as if choosing their words carefully. “Yes, Miss Bailey. We found your husband.” Found him. Those three words were like a key, instantly unlocking the cellar in my heart. Countless fireworks exploded in my mind, each one blooming with the word “freedom.” I almost laughed out loud, quickly covering it with more violent sobbing. “Is he… is he okay?” I asked knowingly, savoring this final, cruel game. The other end fell silent again, this time for longer. “Miss Bailey, please accept our condolences. Mr. Ethan Cross is no longer showing vital signs.” My body went limp, and I slid down onto the carpet as if on cue, the phone falling from my hand with a dull thud. I let out a heart-wrenching wail into the empty air. You have to play the part completely. The neighbor next door must have already heard my continuous crying these past few days. Now, this wail was the climax of this grand performance. I picked up the phone, continuing my performance with a voice hoarse from crying: “How could this… how could this happen… he said this route was safe…” “Miss Bailey.” The voice interrupted my performance, now carrying an unusual tone. “The situation at the scene is… complicated.” “There’s another body with him.” My heart sank abruptly. All the blood in my body seemed to freeze in an instant. Another body? That bitch! Ethan must have taken his mistress along for his pleasure trip! A sick sense of satisfaction surged through me, mixed with the humiliation of betrayal and the thrill of revenge. Good riddance! Serves them right! A pair of cheating scum should be buried together in the ice and snow, dying miserably! I suppressed my rising smile, asking with a trembling voice mixed with the humiliation and pain of a “victimized wife”: “Is it… is it a woman?” The man on the phone—who I later learned was a detective—fell silent once again. This time, his voice was colder than a Siberian blizzard. “It’s a male.” My brain went blank, every pore on my body standing on end from this sudden fear. Not a mistress? A man? Who could it be? In my plan, there had never been a second man. My plan—from surveying the route, calculating the weather, researching Ethan’s physical limits, to swapping the GPS—every single step had been rehearsed thousands of times. It should have been perfect. It should have gone smoothly. This extra man was like a bomb appearing out of nowhere, capable of destroying my entire world. Who was he? A friend Ethan had arranged to meet? Impossible. Ethan was arrogant and selfish, never traveling with others. He enjoyed the thrill of solo conquest. A random hiker who encountered trouble? Then why would he die together with Ethan? Or… did he know about my plan? This thought made my entire body go cold, my teeth chattering uncontrollably. My brain raced through the storm of fear. Countless possibilities flashed before my eyes, each one pointing to a fatal flaw in my plan that I couldn’t have anticipated. Struggling to maintain my composure, I asked with a trembling voice: “Who is he? How could he… how could he be with my husband?” The detective’s voice was emotionless: “Identity currently unknown, needs family identification. Also, Miss Bailey, you should come here as soon as possible. The situation is very… particular.” He emphasized the word “particular” heavily. After hanging up, I rushed to the bathroom, staring at my pale face in the mirror. On that face, the carefully constructed facade of grief I’d maintained for ten days showed its first hairline cracks. Fear climbed up from the depths of my heart like vines, wrapping tightly around my throat. I turned on the faucet, splashing ice-cold water on my face over and over, trying to calm myself down. Victoria, stay calm. You’ve planned this for a year. You can’t lose your composure now. No matter who that man is, he’s already dead. Dead men don’t talk. As long as you don’t say anything, no one will know about the GPS. Ethan’s death will only be an unfortunate climbing accident. Right, an accident. I repeated these two words to myself in the mirror until the fear on my face was replaced by numbness. I changed into black clothes, didn’t put on makeup, letting exhaustion and pallor become my best disguise. Before leaving, I took one last look at the pothos I’d personally killed. Its leaves had completely yellowed, lifeless. Perfect. It no longer had to pretend to be thriving. Just like me. 0

By the time I reached the city where the rescue team was located, it was already the next afternoon. The air was filled with a strange mixture of disinfectant and death. A detective was waiting for me at the entrance. He was a man in his forties, tall and muscular, with dark skin and eyes sharp as a hawk’s, as if they could see through to the darkest corners of one’s soul. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries, just looked me up and down before leading me toward the morgue. “Miss Bailey, our condolences.” He spoke, his voice even colder and harder than on the phone. “The scene inside may be disturbing. Please prepare yourself mentally.” I nodded. The morgue lights were a harsh, sterile white, with cold air invading from all directions, drilling into my bones. Two gurneys covered with white sheets stood side by side in the center. My heart began to pound uncontrollably. The detective walked to one of the beds, looking at me expressionlessly. I took a deep breath and walked forward. The moment the white sheet was pulled back, Ethan’s face—frozen blue-purple, expression grotesquely contorted—appeared before my eyes. His eyes were still open, filled with terror and unwillingness, as if he’d seen something extremely horrifying before death. My stomach churned violently, intense nausea surging up my throat. Not from grief, but from physiological revulsion. This face had appeared in countless nightmares. He would smile, saying the most venomous things in the gentlest tone. “Vicky, the fish you made today is too salty. You’re so stupid.” Then he’d pour scalding fish soup on the back of my hand. “Vicky, look at you, you can’t even mop the floor properly. What’s the point of marrying you?” Then he’d kick me in the stomach. “Vicky, are you thinking about that poor boy again? You’re nothing but a whore!” Then he’d burn shameful marks into my wrist with his cigarette. Now he was finally dead. Dead miserably, face unrecognizable. I should be happy. I had to appear devastated. I collapsed onto his body, letting out a piercing wail, my body trembling violently, retching continuously. The tears were real. They were tears of relief, five years of suppression finally released. The detective didn’t comfort me. He just stood there coldly, waiting for my emotions to settle slightly before pulling me away from Ethan’s corpse. Then he walked toward the other bed. “Miss Bailey, I need you to identify this person as well.” My heart leapt to my throat. The white sheet was pulled back, revealing a completely unfamiliar face. It was a man in his thirties, gaunt features, regular appearance, but his complexion equally blue-purple. Strangely, the corners of his mouth seemed to show relief, or perhaps satisfaction. I searched rapidly through my memory. This face—I was certain I’d never seen it before. I shook my head, my voice trembling with genuine fear: “No… I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before.” This time the fear was from the heart. A strange man who died with a smile, alongside a husband with a grotesque expression. The image was too bizarre, like the opening of a horror film. The detective didn’t seem surprised by my reaction. He just nodded and signaled the medical examiner to cover the body again. He led me out of the morgue to an office. He poured me a cup of hot water, then retrieved a transparent evidence bag from a locked cabinet and pushed it in front of me. Inside the evidence bag lay something black that I knew all too well. The GPS model I’d swapped out—the one that could never send a distress signal. My heart skipped a beat, blood rushing to my head. My fingers tightened around the cup, but even the scalding water couldn’t dispel the ice in my palms. But on the surface, I remained composed, looking at him with confusion: “What is this?” “Ethan’s personal effects.” The detective stared directly into my eyes, each word like a nail hammering into my heart. “A GPS model, incapable of sending any signal. Miss Bailey, do you understand what this means?” I played the part of a wife innocent and ignorant about climbing equipment. “I don’t know… he really liked buying these outdoor things. We have a lot at home. I don’t understand them.” My voice sounded innocent and bewildered. The detective suddenly gave a cold laugh, that laugh filled with undisguised mockery. He pulled a second identical evidence bag from the cabinet and placed it heavily beside the first one. “Is that so? Because coincidentally, we found an identical one on the other deceased.” I felt the entire world spinning and collapsing before my eyes. Two identical GPS models. Two identical “murder weapons.” My “patent,” my supposedly perfect method of murder, had been copied. In an instant, I went from being a mastermind in control to someone trapped in a maze, unable to explain any of this. This was no longer a flawless murder. It was a bizarre mystery case that I couldn’t explain at all, one that sent chills to the bone. My hands and feet went ice-cold, my brain blank. The psychological defense I’d carefully constructed completely crumbled the moment I saw that second GPS model. 0

The interrogation room’s lights were harsh and glaring, stretching my shadow long, like a silent criminal. The detective sat across from me. He didn’t pound the table or shout. He just looked at me calmly with those sharp eyes. But every question he asked was like a precise scalpel, peeling away my disguise layer by layer, reaching my deepest secrets. “Miss Bailey, you used to enjoy climbing too, didn’t you?” He asked casually, as if making conversation. But alarm bells rang in my head. I’d never mentioned this to anyone, especially after marrying Ethan. How did he know? I steadied myself and admitted it: “Yes, I did it for a while in college. Later… after marriage, I never touched it again.” I tried to present the image of an ordinary woman bound by domestic life, who’d given up her hobbies. The detective nodded, seemingly accepting my explanation. “So you should be quite familiar with GPS and other outdoor equipment, correct?” Here it comes. His real purpose. My defense sounded weak: “Just superficial knowledge. I haven’t touched it in years. Equipment updates so fast now, I don’t understand it anymore.” I knew my background knowledge had already made me a prime suspect. No matter how much I denied it, in the police’s eyes, I had the expertise to commit a crime using specialized knowledge. The detective didn’t continue pressing on this point. He changed tactics, dropping a second bombshell. “We discovered that last month, you added a five-million-dollar accidental death policy for Mr. Cross. The beneficiary is you.” My heart sank to rock bottom. This insurance policy was the most important part of my plan. It was both my backup and the capital for my new life. But now it had become a blade pointed at my throat. “Yes… it was Ethan’s own request.” I forced myself to stay calm, searching for the most reasonable explanation. “He loved these extreme sports. He said it was for our family’s security.” I pushed the responsibility onto a dead man. Dead men can’t contradict. The detective smiled, that smile meaningful, seeing through everything. “Is that so? But we contacted the insurance company’s agent. He said you were the one who initiated contact, and you handled the entire process. He also mentioned that Mr. Cross himself seemed unaware of the policy’s specific terms.” My whole body went cold, as if all my blood had been drained. I hadn’t expected that bastard Ethan to discuss the insurance with outsiders. Or perhaps this was just the detective’s interrogation tactic, testing me. But I didn’t dare gamble. My silence, in the detective’s eyes, was admission. The worst was yet to come. A young officer walked in and handed a document to the detective. The detective glanced at it, then slammed the document heavily on the table in front of me. “Miss Bailey, our tech department recovered your home computer’s browsing history from the past three months.” My eyes fell on the document, which had printed out keywords I knew all too well and feared most. “Remote mountain climbing routes” “How long does hypothermia take to kill” “GPS signal blocking methods” “How climbing accidents are determined” Each word was like a red-hot chain, binding me tightly to the suspect’s chair. My supposed thoroughness, those traces I’d carefully erased during countless late nights, were nothing but a joke before professional forensic technology. They had become the rope to hang me, tightening ever more. The detective leaned forward, hands folded on the table, eyes sharp as blades. “Massive insurance payout, professional knowledge, motive for murder, and now two unexplainable GPS models. Miss Bailey, is there anything else you’d like to say?” My brain went blank. All my defenses and pretenses seemed so laughable and futile before this ironclad evidence. I was finished. My plan, my freedom, the new life I’d dreamed of—all would turn to nothing in this moment. Despair engulfed me like a tide. I could even feel the icy seawater rising over my head, depriving me of my last breath. 0

The interrogation reached a stalemate. I was like a butterfly caught in a spider’s web. No matter how I struggled, I couldn’t escape those layers upon layers of evidence. I gave up defending myself and chose silence. Because I knew the more I said, the more mistakes I’d make. Just as I was on the verge of despair, ready to accept this absurd fate, someone knocked on the interrogation room door. A young officer hurried in, leaned close to the detective’s ear and whispered something, then handed him a document. The detective took the document and scanned it quickly. His brow furrowed at first, then slowly relaxed, his eyes becoming extremely complex. He looked up at me, his gaze containing scrutiny, confusion, and something barely perceptible. He was silent for a long time, so long I thought time had stopped. Then he slowly spoke, his voice low and clear. “The other deceased’s identity has been confirmed.” My heart jumped violently, and my body involuntarily straightened. “His name was Marcus Reed.” Marcus Reed? I desperately searched this name in my mind but couldn’t find any related memories. A stranger. Completely unfamiliar. The detective seemed to see my confusion. He continued: “He was your husband Ethan’s former business partner.” “Three years ago, their company went bankrupt. Marcus shouldered all the debt. Shortly after, his wife, unable to bear the burden, jumped from a rooftop with their three-year-old daughter.” The detective’s voice was calm, as if recounting a story unrelated to him. But every word was like a boulder, slamming hard into my heart. Family destroyed, lives lost. Ethan again. Another wrong he’d committed. “We found this in Marcus’s clothing.” The detective pushed a photo toward me. In the photo was a letter, somewhat blurred from being soaked in snow melt. The paper was wrinkled and worn, but the handwriting remained clear, every stroke radiating bone-deep hatred. “Ethan, I’ve come for you. You destroyed everything I had. Now it’s my turn.” “Let’s go to hell together.” Signed: Marcus Reed. A suicide note. A declaration from an avenger. I stared at that photo, feeling like I’d been struck by lightning. Pure joy! Indescribable joy instantly swept through my entire body, dispersing all fear and despair. It was revenge! Another person’s revenge! Everything made sense now! The second GPS, the man who died with a smile, all the bizarre details—they all had a perfect explanation in this moment! It wasn’t that my plan had flaws. Another avenger had chosen the same method, the same time, to end the same demon’s life! This could explain the second GPS’s existence, could clear me of all suspicion! I looked up excitedly, my voice trembling slightly with excitement: “Did you see that? This proves everything has nothing to do with me! It was this Marcus… he killed Ethan and then committed suicide! It was him!” The light of hope was right before me. I could already see myself walking out of the police station, breathing free air. “Is that so?” The detective’s icy voice was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head, instantly extinguishing the flame that had just ignited in my heart. He interrupted me, his expression colder than ever before. He slammed another document heavily on the table. It was a printed, yellowed student record. In the upper right corner was a one-inch photo of me from my college days, young and naive. And below, on the roster of members for an outdoor climbing club called “Snow Peak,” next to my name was printed another name—Marcus Reed. I felt struck by thunder, my whole body rigid, unable to move. My brain buzzed. That obscure college club I’d forgotten in the corners of my memory, one I’d only attended a few times, emerged like a ghost that had lain dormant for years, dragging me into an even deeper abyss. I had absolutely no memory of such a person in the club. But there it was in black and white, irrefutable evidence. The detective leaned forward, elbows on the table, those sharp eyes locked onto me like a captured prey. His voice wasn’t loud, but every word was like final judgment, hammering heavily on my heart. “Miss Bailey, same college club, both experts in climbing and outdoor equipment, both harboring deep hatred for Ethan, both using the same obsessive, one-of-a-kind murder method.” He paused, each pause prolonging my suffering and torment. “Do you still dare claim that you and Marcus are just a coincidence?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “358204”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #浪漫Romance #现实主义Realistic #重生Reborn #校园School