Making My Daughter's Murderer Beg for Death

Not long ago, my pregnant daughter was murdered, and the killer remained at large.

Until that day, as I stood before her grave, her husband Oliver asked me,

"Mom, do you know who Robin is?"

"Stella came back from her prenatal checkup one day and said she bumped into Robin," he choked out. "She even said she wanted to take the baby to visit him."

My hand, reaching out to comfort him, froze in mid-air.

Because Robin was no good man—he had once tried to harm Stella.

That name was her lifelong nightmare. She wouldn't even dare look at a picture of a robin in a book.

And that name was a secret known only to me and my late husband.

So... who exactly is lying?

——

"Mom, put this on. Don't catch a chill."

A cashmere coat was draped gently over my shoulders.

I stood before Stella's headstone, my fingers tightly gripping a bouquet of white irises.

Rain cascaded off my umbrella, striking the young, vibrant, yet forever frozen smile on the headstone.

My daughter. Twenty-eight years old, dead in the middle of the night just seven days ago.

I laid the irises at the base of the stone. Turning around, I saw Oliver's ashen face.

In a mere seven days, he seemed to have aged ten years.

Oliver, Seattle's youngest and most brilliant chief surgeon, and the man my Stella loved most in this world.

He had just lost his beloved wife and their unborn child.

"Thank you, Oliver."

Oliver knelt, his fingers gently tracing Stella's photo on the stone.

Tears mingled with the rain on his cheeks. His sobs were choked back, so suppressed that his shoulders trembled violently.

"I still can't believe she's gone..." Oliver choked out.

"We already bought the crib. We already picked out a name... How could she just leave me like this?"

Watching his grief-stricken silhouette, a sharp ache gripped my heart.

As a mother, I had lost my daughter; but as a husband, he had lost his entire world.

I reached out, wanting to pat his shoulder to offer some comfort.

Right at that moment, Oliver slowly stood up and turned to look at me.

"By the way, Mom. Do you know who Robin is?"

My hand, reaching for his shoulder, froze dead in mid-air.

Robin.

"Was Stella's nickname Robin?"

My mind began to race frantically.

"Are you sure she mentioned Robin?"

"When did she say she saw Robin?"

Oliver thought for a moment.

"The day she came back from her prenatal checkup. She seemed in high spirits. She said she bumped into Robin on the street. She told me Robin was an old neighbor from her childhood who used to take great care of her, and she wanted to pay a visit."

"I pressed her on who it was, but she just smiled and said she'd take me to meet them after the baby was born."

"I never thought..."

Oliver's voice dropped lower and lower, ultimately breaking into quiet sobs.

And I stood behind him, the blood in my veins running completely cold.

"I don't know who Robin is," I shook my head.

Oliver turned back, his eyes fixed lovingly on the headstone once more.

And I stood behind him, the blood in my veins running completely cold.

Something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong!

When Stella was seven, a middle-aged man named Robin moved in next door.

The man seemed gentle on the surface, but one afternoon, he tried to drag Stella into his basement to molest her.

Though my husband arrived just in time to save her, the ordeal left Stella with severe psychological trauma.

From that day on, Stella couldn't bear to hear the word "Robin"—not the name, not even the bird.

Even a picture of a robin in a children's book would send her into violent shivers, screaming as she tore the pages to shreds.

The name "Robin" was her ultimate, lifelong nightmare.

Aside from Stella, only my husband and I knew about this.

It was an absolute taboo, a forbidden word we never allowed anyone to mention.

How could someone so deeply terrified of that name ever bring it up to Oliver on her own accord?