The Ashes of Innocence

[If I say I love you, I'll love your past, your tantrums, even your flaws.]

[If I say I love you, I'll offer my heart, lungs, spleen, and stomach to the love god who's fallen into hell.]

[If I say I love you, I'll drain my blood, leaving only my skin to wrap around your soul, dodging death's grasp.]

[If I say I love you, we'll kiss passionately, our tongues entwined, our bodies merging, burning away sin and sorrow with a fiery embrace.]

[We'll meet eventually.]

Alan had recently gotten hooked on writing novels. This was a short poem he scribbled in his notebook, painting a picture of medieval lovers vowing to stay together forever despite persecution from their religious sect.

Reading it, I frowned. It had a strong narrative, but it also had a bloody and mysterious vibe, which wasn't really his usual style.

Alan Smith was my husband.

To be honest, when I first saw him in college, I thought he was nice. Girls often liked men who reminded them of their fathers. And Alan was indeed an ideal husband—steady, a great cook, and he lived a simple life.

A few years ago, I quit my job at the prosecutor's office, and everyone was against it. But Alan supported me without hesitation, saying not to worry about money. He worked at the Forestry Bureau, and his salary was decent, enough to support us.

Finding something I loved to do was a stroke of luck. And having Alan still be so considerate after ten years of marriage was another blessing.

My name was Nancy Johnson. I was the chief editor of the largest legal publication in the city, Silverlight City Legal Journal, a former prosecutor, and a licensed attorney. I was a typical workaholic, or rather, a strong woman. In just three years after leaving the prosecutor's office, I worked my way up from reporter to chief editor.

I had noticed Alan acting strange lately but couldn't quite put my finger on it. Overall, he seemed more melancholic and indecisive. Every time he looked at me, there was an inexplicable, unreadable emotion in his eyes.

I trusted my judgment. It wasn't just a woman's intuition but the accumulation of years of legal work. He must be hiding something, and he would tell me at some point. This was the trust built over years of marriage.

Thinking of this, I stretched and changed to a more comfortable position, lying horizontally on the sofa. I took out my phone and checked the time. It was already 10 PM, and Alan hadn't come back yet.

He went to a college reunion, which he had informed me about a few days ago.

Although it was a bit late, I decided not to rush him. I closed the Facebook chat page. It had been a while since they last met, and I didn't want to interrupt their conversation. Men needed to maintain their dignity when they were out. They didn't like women who constantly nagged about trivial things and followed them around complaining, and neither did I.

At this moment, a news alert popped up on my phone: [A major fire broke out in a private room at the largest entertainment venue in the city, True Love Entertainment Club, injuring several people. No deaths have been reported so far.]

When reading news about such incidents, people needed to pay attention to the wording. "No deaths have been reported so far" often meant someone was critically injured and near death. The news was phrased this way to maintain social stability, and the club owner likely pulled some strings.

Sure enough, a message from my boss popped up on Facebook: [Check your email.]

I opened my work email to find a dozen photos. Despite my years of experience in legal work, I was still shocked by what I saw.

The hotel room was completely burned, with all the furniture charred. Only the frame of a sofa remained, and on it was a charred body—or rather, a piece of charcoal.

Even more bizarre, the body's chest had been clearly cut open, with all the organs removed, leaving only some charred tissue inside.

Was this revenge? Torture? A crime of passion? Or organ trafficking?

My mind was racing as I kept scrolling through the photos.

Then I froze.

The heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, stomach, eyes, and male genitalia were hanging from the ceiling of the room.

The ceiling was high, and the fire hadn't reached it. The body parts were cooked by the heat and smoke.

Even more bizarre, a set of blackened metal cutlery and plates were neatly arranged on the floor, along with some other charred items that were unidentifiable.

What did this mean? Were they planning to eat? Or... was it some kind of unspeakable ritual?

Self-media editors would sensationalize this, making wild speculations. I recalled the bizarre cases in Silverlight City over the past decade. As the most developed city in the West, it wouldn't have cult-related cases. It was likely a cover for some other motive.

Based on my years of experience, I concluded that this was not an accidental fire as reported, but clearly a premeditated arson and murder case, and from the photos, it was a well-planned operation.

At this moment, my phone rang. It was my boss.

He said helplessly, "Nancy, you know, I wanted you to take a good vacation, go out for a few days, and have a nice holiday with Alan. I've always cared about your life, after all, you're our only..."

He paused for a moment and then continued, "But you've seen the photos. It's clearly not an accidental fire. It has a cult-like feel, but there haven't been similar cases in Silverlight City for the past decade, so let's rule that out. I suspect it's a premeditated murder case. I suggest analyzing it from the perspective of a psychopathic killer. Also, I think we should withhold some details of the case. Although it will cost us some clicks, legal responsibility outweighs profit."

The boss liked to beat around the bush, but I got straight to the point, "If this incident were to be exposed, it would have a huge impact. It would be a blow to the public's psychological endurance and could even encourage similar crimes. Regarding such information, I always follow the position of official media. This is the duty of a legal professional."

The boss said, "Alright, no problem. Then you need to work overtime tonight. I'll send you the information we have. The official media will likely release the real situation tomorrow afternoon. We'll publish our analysis right after."

"OK," I replied.

As soon as the call ended, a compressed file was sent to my email. I entered the password and opened it. Scrolling quickly, I started to read the information.

The incident occurred around 9 PM. The police were already investigating, and the suspect had been identified and arrested. It was a woman, and a photo was attached.

The suspect's identity wasn't important. The motive and the plan behind the crime were the key points.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of that photo, and my heart skipped a beat. The person in the photo looked familiar; I had seen her just a few days ago in a group picture with Alan's college friends.

My fingers felt frozen as I struggled to scroll back. Then Laura Brown's photo appeared before me.

She was at the class reunion tonight.

Fire, murder, suspect Laura—I felt a chill run through my body as I dialed Alan's number.

Once, twice, three times, no one answered the phone.

I felt as if I had fallen into an icy abyss; my vision darkened, my heart raced, and I couldn't help but tremble slightly. Countless thoughts flashed through my mind.

At this moment, my phone rang. It was an unknown number. I stared at the familiar photo, but I didn't dare to answer the call.

I forced myself to calm down, took a deep breath, and answered the call.

"Hello, is this Mrs. Smith? This is the Silverlight City Police Department's Criminal Investigation Division. We've found a charred body, and preliminary DNA matching indicates it is Alan Smith. Please come to identify the body."

Hearing no response, the police called out, "Mrs. Smith?"