Chapter3

Look. People who commit heinous crimes really do have the worst memories.

It’s only been four short years, yet Logan Collins has completely forgotten about that rainy night.

Forgotten the girl he tricked into his car, brutally violated, and strangled to death with his own bare hands.

Then again, the rain was pouring that night. Combine that with the fact that I’m wearing an entirely different body now, it makes perfect sense that he doesn't recognize the current "Grace" as the Nora he killed.

"Please, don't kill me! I swear I won't say a word..." Four years ago, I had begged him so desperately.

But Logan just yanked my hair with violent impatience. "Shut up! You cheap trash, you should be honored to even step foot in my car!"

The moment my breath finally gave out, I thought I saw Grandma Mae. She was wearing that old, endlessly patched sweater, standing at the bottom of the stairs, her cloudy eyes eagerly waiting for me to come home for dinner.

Her little notebook, filled with the license plate numbers of everyone in town, ultimately failed to bring her granddaughter back.

That’s because my corpse was personally dismembered by Logan's father—Warren, the owner of the local hunting grounds. He used a boning knife to hack me to pieces, tossing me deep into the forest like rotting meat.

Meanwhile, his "kind and loving" mother, Darlene, scrubbed my blood from the floor without batting an eye.

This undying, bone-deep hatred—I let it simmer in the cold, dark earth for four whole years.

Until a fatal car crash gave me this new vessel named Grace. It allowed me to walk right through the front doors of the Collins estate, legally and legitimately, as their new bride.

"Stop spacing out, Grace! Give the camera a smile!"

Logan's impatient shout violently yanked me back from my memories.

He was holding up his phone, excitedly live-streaming on "StreamSpot."

Tonight was my father-in-law Warren's sixtieth birthday banquet.

"What's up, fam! Check out the custom-tailored suit my wife made for the old man by hand! Doesn't it look sick?" Logan practically danced in front of the lens.

I played along, linking my arm through his and flashing a flawless smile. Beneath the thick layers of foundation, my cadaver spots remained perfectly hidden.

"I'm going to go check if Dad is ready," I said softly, turning on my heel and heading toward the second-floor lounge.

Pushing open the heavy double doors, I found my father-in-law standing before the mirror, adjusting that pure black suit.

"The tailoring on this is absolutely phenomenal, but the fabric is strangely cold." Warren turned around and, without an ounce of hesitation, hooked an arm around my waist, giving my hip a hard, inappropriate squeeze.

His cloudy eyes practically dripped with naked lust and greed.

"Dad, I stayed up all night sewing this just for you." I submissively leaned into his embrace, fighting down the violent nausea churning in my stomach.

"Let's go, my sweet daughter-in-law. Time to go down and cut the cake." Warren barked a laugh, releasing me and striding confidently toward the staircase.

Down in the banquet hall, my mother-in-law Darlene was handing out greeting cards with her church sisters. The moment she saw me descending the stairs, she plastered on a mask of maternal affection. Yet, as I passed, she hissed in a tone only I could hear, "All the VIPs of the town are here tonight. You better behave yourself. Don't you dare embarrass Logan."

"I understand, Mom," I murmured, lowering my head in perfect submission.

BANG!

The main doors burst open with brute force. A freezing, unnatural draft swept through the hall, instantly snuffing out the massive ring of birthday candles.

The paranormal streamer, Deacon Hale, charged into the lobby, chest heaving. His knuckles were white as he gripped a crucifix smeared with holy ash.

"Take it off! Warren, take that suit off right now!" Deacon roared like a madman, his eyes bloodshot as he pointed a trembling finger at my father-in-law. "Don't wear it! Take it off! That's a shroud meant for the dead!"

A dead silence fell over the hall.

Logan froze for a split second before erupting into ecstatic, mocking laughter. He shoved his phone camera right into Deacon's face. "Look at this, fam! A psychic is crashing the party! If we hit one million likes, I'll make my dad do a dance in this exact suit!"

"You lunatic, it's going to kill your father!" Deacon screamed, lunging forward to tear the suit off, only to be brutally tackled and pinned to the floor by several security guards.

"Mr. Psychic," Warren said, strolling over to Deacon with terrifying composure. "You're saying I'm wearing a burial shroud?"

Deacon struggled to lift his head, veins bulging at his temples. "Look at it yourself! The suit has no pockets! The buttons are tied in dead-knots! The collar stands up like a coffin pillow! Smell it! Take a damn good smell of that fabric—it reeks of formalin!"

Warren lowered his head, bringing his cuff to his nose. He took a brief sniff before letting out a dismissive scoff. "My daughter-in-law tailored this by hand using the finest Italian fabric. How did it suddenly turn into a dead man's clothes in your mouth?"

Nobody took Deacon’s warning seriously. Logan spent the entire night counting his livestream gifts on camera, and even as the party wound down, Darlene was still bragging to her church friends about my incredible tailoring skills.

When the guests finally dispersed, everything seemed perfectly normal.

The lights in the Collins estate flicked off, one by one.

The night was dead silent, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Who would have thought that by the next morning, someone would actually be dead.

Only... the dead person was my father-in-law, Warren.