The man who assaulted my sister disappeared after his release from prison. The police questioned me. "We heard your family made 300 pounds of sausages overnight." I smiled calmly: "Yes, the neighbors all had some. Is that against the law?"
On my sister's wedding day, Frank Wilson, the man who had assaulted her, was released from prison. "Who would want my leftovers? Everyone, she's just my used goods!" Frank Wilson, the man who destroyed my entire family, disrupted the wedding banquet. My future in-laws were concerned about their reputation and firmly called off the wedding.
"My son is a prestigious university graduate. How can he hold his head up in the future?"
"Where there's smoke, there's fire. Looking at that man's attitude, they must have had something going on."
The gossip always pointed to the victim. But Frank Wilson wasn't done with us yet. He lingered outside our house like a fly, shouting through a megaphone day and night:
"My used goods lives up there! Not moving out? Waiting for me?"
"Miranda Thompson, don't be shy!"
"Once husband and wife for a day, the bond lasts a hundred days. Come out and have some fun!"
He haunted us relentlessly. But strangely, after a few days, Frank Wilson mysteriously disappeared.
According to reports, the last signal from his phone was detected near our house. In that alley where he had committed his crime. Ten years ago on a winter night, Miranda was dragged into the abyss there. That year was particularly cold. I held my sister as we cried helplessly. Mom couldn't handle the shock and died of a stroke. On my sister's 17th birthday, we sisters unexpectedly became orphans.
[...]
The thickness of the meat, hanging densely on the poles, emanated a rich fragrance. But Detective Turner, with his years of criminal investigation experience, keenly sensed something unusual.
"Aren't sausages usually made before the New Year? Why are you making them after the New Year's over?"
I calmly explained: "I was busy preparing for the wedding before New Year's and didn't have time. Who knew all that would happen and the wedding would be called off? Now I have plenty of time. What else is there to do?"
Detective Turner's eyes showed sympathy. "Sorry to bring up painful memories."
"Better to see things clearly early than too late." I had always respected Detective Turner. Back then, after the crime was reported, he happened to be patrolling near Thompson Village and was the first to arrive at the scene. I'll never forget how he carried my sister to the ambulance.
"Mrs. Wilson said you bought large amounts of salt and liquor the day after her husband disappeared."
"Salt is for curing meat, liquor removes the gamey taste." I smiled. "Meat ground in a machine doesn't taste good, it needs to be hand-chopped. Maybe the noise was a bit loud. Is Mrs. Wilson complaining about noise disturbance? Detective Turner, look around - are there even any neighbors here to disturb?"
I glanced around. Many buildings in the surrounding village had fallen to bulldozers. The village was nearly empty. Frank Wilson's harassment wasn't just about revenge. It was also about demolition.
Our house was in a soon-to-be-developed district. The real estate developers were desperate to demolish it. But their terms were too harsh, and a few stubborn families refused. Gradually, we became nail households.
"The developer's boss hired Frank Wilson to intimidate us, to ruin our reputation and force us to leave. His wife Helen Wilson's brother is the developer's right-hand man. When our family tragedy happened, at my mother's funeral, Helen led people to wreck the memorial hall, accusing me of seducing her husband and causing him to go to jail."
I clutched the urn, curled up like a shrimp, refusing to let go no matter how much they kicked and beat me. Now there were twenty to thirty households refusing demolition, all of whom had suffered Frank Wilson's malicious revenge.
The more evil deeds one commits, the more ghosts naturally come to haunt them.
"Detective Turner, Frank Wilson was known for his vices - drinking, gambling, visiting prostitutes. Disappearing for a few days was normal for him. Helen is using this as an excuse to frame me. Please investigate thoroughly and clear my name."
Detective Turner agreed. He inspected the pigsty and checked the kitchen. Just as he was about to leave, Grandma Tang from next door stormed in angrily with a cooked sausage.
My heart skipped a beat.
"Thompson, what exactly did you put in these sausages? It nearly broke my grandson's tooth!"
Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I instinctively looked at Detective Turner. Inside the sausage Grandma held was half a tooth.
My thoughts drifted back to that night two weeks ago. At the brink of death, for some reason, the door stopped turning. My sister calmly said: "Sister, I'm tired. Going to bed." She left, her voice unwavering. While relieved, I couldn't help but wonder: Had she really heard nothing?
As the footsteps faded, Frank Wilson's smug smile appeared. Just as he reached for my shirt, the door flew open without warning. My sister, who had quietly returned, smashed a vase against Frank's head! As he fell, she seized the moment to strangle him with a pillowcase. Years of suppressed rage erupted, the force distorting her usually gentle face.
Frank wasn't tall but was sturdy. In this life-or-death moment, I pinned down his limbs until his eyes rolled back and he passed out completely.
"Miranda, what do we do? Yes, we should call the police!" I was panicked, reaching for my phone first thing. But my sister knocked it away.
Breathing heavily, hair disheveled, her eyes blazed with a vitality I'd never seen before. So intense, burning so bright, as if it could incinerate everything.
"Sister, we only get one chance."
My head was buzzing. I asked what chance? The moon emerged outside, and my sister's face was like moonlight. Serene and beautiful. I thought, no one could resist that.
"Sister, have you ever butchered a pig?"
Of course I had. Our father was a butcher. That's why our pigsty was especially large, with a complete set of tools in the cellar.
"Dad taught us before, remember, sister?"
My sister stared at me unblinking. At that moment, I stood at a crossroads in life. To remain forever harassed, a pitiful and helpless victim. Or to become the hunter.
After brief consideration, I heard another voice within me say: "I remember. To butcher a pig, you need to boil water first, preferably at 80 degrees."
Together, we dragged Frank Wilson to the basement. As the water heated up, the steamy mist was like the snow fog from ten years ago, densely masking his ugly face. This made him look less human. More like a docile beast. No, beasts are innocent - he wasn't.
Father's butchering tools lay in a row. My sister calmly selected a bone cleaver. In the dead of winter, my back was drenched in sweat. I wiped my palms and chose the sharpest knife.
"Tie up his limbs, hang him upside down, and don't forget to gag him." With the help of pulleys, we easily suspended Frank Wilson inverted.
"Compared to this, butchering pigs is harder. The subcutaneous fat is thicker too." It requires more strength.
In the moment before we struck, our hands joined together, like cutting a cake. The world fell silent. Frank Wilson had long been awake, his eyes bloodshot, but gagged with a towel, he could only shake helplessly, struggling in vain.
My sister laughed.
"Back then, I struggled like this too. I begged."
"But did you show me mercy?"
Blood dripped down into the bucket we'd prepared. Clean and neat, not spattering anywhere. My sister showed a long-absent smile, and I felt an unprecedented satisfaction.
Afterward, we worked day and night for three days. Made exactly three hundred pounds of sausages.
"What kind of tooth is this?" Detective Turner's expression turned grave. He signaled me not to move, then put on gloves to examine the tooth.
Immense panic gripped my throat, nearly choking me. After a few glances, he fell silent.
He said: "Grandma Tang, this is a fragment of pig's tooth."
I nearly collapsed with relief, quickly apologizing: "We were short-handed, weren't thorough enough. I'm sorry."
I had panicked needlessly. The first batch of sausages was long gone. Our family's sausage-making skills were well-known in the area. Mom was from Sichuan, skilled at cooking, her seasoning blend unmatched. But with her asthma and weak constitution, she couldn't handle heavy work. My sister and I learned by observation, inheriting her culinary talent.
Meat must be chopped by hand - machine-processed meat lacks the right texture. Mom used to say: The difference between food and cuisine is in the breath. The breath of life.
Stir-frying dried chilies over low heat, rock sugar, ginger powder, Sichuan peppercorn from our backyard tree, mixing the meat evenly before stuffing into casings. When we lifted the lid, the aroma burst forth. I cut a piece, and my sister wolfed it down. She sighed contentedly.
"Sister, it tastes just like Mom's."
Most ironically, Frank Wilson's wife came by to make trouble once, saw the sausages, and greedily took a batch. The rest were given to neighbors or eaten ourselves. Gone without a trace.
After Detective Turner left, my sister's spirits improved noticeably. She was willing to sunbathe in the yard, resumed communication, and became indifferent to others' pointing and whispering. She ate heartily, smiling at me.
"Sister, turns out when you're feeling down, eating more meat makes everything better."
Seeing her encouraged, I felt relieved. Her wellness was my wellness.
But soon, strange things began happening. At first, I developed many painful mouth sores. At night, my stomach would twist in agony. It was as if Frank Wilson wasn't gone at all. He was corroding my body.
My sister stayed indoors, studying daily for the adult college entrance exam. "Sister, I can't keep wallowing. I need to retake the exam. Chris Henderson's family looked down on me for not being from a prestigious university, right? I'll prove I can do it too."
Chris Henderson, her ex-fiancé, almost became my brother-in-law. He claimed not to mind my sister's past, but couldn't withstand his mother's protests. They eventually broke up.
I got distracted and knocked over her test papers. Glancing at them, my breathing suddenly quickened. She wasn't solving problems at all! What had she been writing so furiously every day?
The pages were filled with different names, written with intense pressure that pierced through the paper, full of hatred. Frank Wilson led the list. Then Chris Henderson. But the last name made my blood run cold. In the notebook was my name. Rachel Thompson.
My sister had been harboring hatred for me. Understandable. That night, I was supposed to deliver dumplings to aunt, but busy chatting with my boyfriend on the phone, I sent her instead. Though reluctant, she went. I've imagined countless times: if I had gone, would things be different? Perhaps Mom would still be alive, and my sister would be fine.
But life has no "what ifs." All these years, I devoted myself to caring for her, sacrificing my career without hesitation. I studied medical surgery, which required graduate and doctoral studies for advancement. But with my sister, I took a job at a private clinic after undergraduate - it paid enough and let me stay close to care for her.
Suddenly, I remembered something crucial. That night when we struck. We did it together, but her hands pressed on the back of mine. From start to finish, only my fingerprints were left on the knife!
An icy chill enveloped my body. I went to the cellar and opened the toolbox. That night, my sister volunteered to clean up. If she had put away the knife beforehand, then I was the sole murderer.
At dinner, we sisters sat facing each other. Silent, until the plates were nearly empty. My sister said: "Helen Wilson keeps asking around, looking for surveillance footage."
I knew that stubborn woman wouldn't give up. Discovery was inevitable.
My sister put down her chopsticks, her dark eyes fixed on me. "Sister, I want sausages again. Fresh ones."
A numbing sensation shot through my head. I couldn't tell what kind of meat she meant.
This couldn't go on. Gathering my courage, I told her: "Miranda, use that knife. Report me."
I had been prepared for everything. The moment I made that decision, I knew all possible consequences - no crime is perfect. Meat is easy to dispose of, bones aren't.
We sisters sat facing each other for a long time, as if reaching some agreement. I took out a bank card.
"Everything was my fault. Focus on your studies. Don't worry about money."
"Your big sister has prepared everything."
"The PIN is your birthday."
My sister opened her mouth, her eyes unfathomable, but quickly lowered her head.
Just then, I received a call from Detective Turner. I was being summoned.
"Helen Wilson found surveillance footage of you throwing garbage on the back mountain the night Frank disappeared."
My stomach pain intensified. The foreign matter threatened to burst out.
"It's a twenty-minute drive from your house to the back mountain. Thompson, what exactly were you throwing away there?"
Trembling, I spoke: "I know where Frank Wilson is."
When Detective Turner rushed back to the police station, his forehead was covered in sweat, his expression bewildered. I raised my head numbly.
"Frank Wilson is inside me."
I confessed to everything.
"My sister doesn't know any of this. The neighbors all know she has depression. Especially after the wedding fell through, she barely leaves her room." I recited my well-rehearsed lines.
"Your sister?" The officer taking notes repeated the word strangely.
Fearing they'd discover something, I clenched my hands and nodded.
"My sister, Miranda Thompson. She really doesn't know anything. The exam is coming up, please don't disturb her. She used to be top of her class before the accident. She dropped out, but now she's finally motivated again. Nothing should interfere with her exam."
The air in the interrogation room seemed to freeze. Especially Detective Turner's face showed something I couldn't describe and had never seen before - a mix of shock, pity, heartache, and helplessness.
He stared at me, with ten thousand reluctances, but forced himself to speak:
"Miranda Thompson, you never had a sister."
"Your sister, Rachel Thompson, died during that rape case ten years ago."
Intense dizziness and nausea flooded my head. What nonsense was he talking about? I'm Rachel Thompson. I'm the elder sister, Miranda's only support. My poor sister is the victim of the rape case. All these years, thankfully, I've been here - she could safely hide in her room, never stepping out, while I weathered the storms for her.
"I am the elder sister, Rachel Thompson." I insisted loudly.
Detective Turner brought a mirror and forced me to look. I froze.
The girl in the mirror was deathly pale, with shoulder-length black hair, shoulders trembling constantly. I jumped up screaming, smashing the mirror.
"No, no, you're not me—"
The shattered pieces reflected my terrified face.
"Miranda Thompson, you have Dissociative Identity Disorder."
Detective Turner regretfully said: "When I visited last time, reviewing the recording, I noticed something odd about how you referred to yourself."
He played the recording:
[Helen led people to wreck the memorial hall, accusing me of seducing her husband.]
Here, you used "me."
[Our sausages taste great this time, Detective Turner, take some.]
Here, you said "our."
Detective Turner's gaze was deep and helpless. "I kept wondering, who did your 'our' refer to? As far as I know, you live alone in that house."
I collapsed to my knees, howling like a wounded animal, my entire body's blood freezing then thawing under the massive shock. Memories awakened, blood surging.
I remembered everything.
The surveillance footage clearly recorded this transformation. The helpless, frightened girl changed completely in the blink of an eye. She lifted her head, relaxed her posture, and sat back down. Her eyes, tone, even body language were utterly different from moments before.
"You can call me Miranda, because I am Miranda Thompson." I spoke with post-sleep weariness. "And also Rachel Thompson."
Yes, I was the younger sister. That snowy night, I carried a thermos to deliver dumplings to aunt. But how could my sister, with her workaholic nature, let me go alone? She hung up on her boyfriend and rushed after me.
"Rachel Thompson was just that kind of responsible person."
After Frank Wilson assaulted and knocked me unconscious, through blurred vision, I saw my sister appear. During her fierce struggle with Frank, her asthma attacked. Yes, she inherited Mom's culinary talent and weak constitution.
Frank fled. My sister's inhaler had fallen aside. She curled up helplessly, the snow was so thick it covered her breath. Her inhaler lay seven or eight meters away. In my last glimpse before losing consciousness, I saw her reaching for it.
Much later, someone called the police. The person Detective Turner carried to the ambulance wasn't me. It was my sister, already dead.
That night, I lost everything. With no family left, I became a complete orphan.
"But Frank only got ten years. I don't understand - he destroyed my entire family."
Home was gone. In my pain, I split into two personalities. When facing hardship, my "sister" personality would take over, handling everything from returning the engagement gifts to facing the mockery from my ex-fiancé's family. Sister was omnipotent, protecting and indulging me, never betraying.
Other officers muttered: "How could someone so frail overpower Frank Wilson? And make sausages? The sausages she gave out - many people haven't eaten them yet. We checked immediately, pure pork."
"Helen Wilson ate some too, scared herself into getting her stomach pumped."
"Everyone who ate them showed no problems. She must have severe delusions, imagining everything. She belongs in a mental hospital, not a police station."
But one piece of news changed everyone's expressions.
"The bags Miranda Thompson dumped on the back mountain were found."
Everyone exchanged glances.
"Inside were Frank Wilson's blood and clothes."
That gray shirt I'd seen through the closet crack.
Hearing this, I was stunned too. So that night, someone really was in the closet? Had I really fought? When my sister personality wasn't present, I knew nothing of many things.
Detective Turner caught a key point. "So your memories aren't shared between personalities?"
"Only the personality using the body has memories of that time. But we trust each other completely, keep no secrets. We write everything we do in a diary."
I painfully recounted: "Sister went to dispose of the bones. She wrote that she dumped them in six places - the back mountain, the Ningde Road incinerator, the river..." But when Detective Turner checked those locations, he found nothing.
"We searched all the spots you mentioned. No bones."
"Plus, Frank Wilson's last phone signal disappeared in the alley, not at your house."
I was stunned. Were my sister's diary entries fake? Why would she lie to me? Where did the missing Frank Wilson go?
Until Frank Wilson was found, I would remain a suspect. Was I truly a murderer?
This perplexing case was widely reported by the media. People called it the "Sausage Murder Case." Its sensational nature immediately captured public attention.
"I can never look at sausages the same way again."
"She's stupid - why didn't she just move away?"
"Why should the victim leave? What did she do wrong to deserve leaving her childhood home? Moving costs money - will you pay?"
"When will restraining orders be properly enforced? Mental trauma is still trauma. Her mental illness was triggered by harassment. Frank Wilson brought this on himself!"
I became a subject of observation for police and doctors. Cameras recorded my every move, every word, every expression. Due to my mental patient status, if police couldn't find more evidence, I would be released without charges.
After observing me for days, the psychologist proposed a bold theory.
"She has more than just two personalities."
"Her behavior patterns suggest two personalities," the psychologist explained. "The sister personality loves reading and cooking, with strong social skills - she's the one who works outside. The younger sister avoids going out, obsessed with college entrance exams, studying constantly."
"But in her home, we found many empty alcohol bottles. The sister personality has asthma and is health-conscious, never drinks. The younger sister doesn't drink either. So who consumed the alcohol?"
Detective Turner recalled something. "She had alcohol in her system when she confessed."
"I never drink, not a drop." I scoffed at their speculation. "I only sense my sister's presence. Don't I know myself?"
The doctor explained gently: "That silent personality, perhaps even your sister personality hasn't noticed. It only emerges at crucial moments to protect you both."
"If you could split into your sister, why not someone else?"
The doctor interlaced his fingers, expression gentle. "Your father was a butcher."
A hard-drinking, fierce, silent butcher.
These words made every pore on my body stand on end.
"This explains everything," they continued. "You only remember the bleeding. Your father's personality handled the dismemberment details. He was an experienced butcher. He dismembered and disposed of the body. We found Frank Wilson's footprints on your second-floor windowsill, reasonably suspecting he did break in that night to harass you, was killed in the struggle, then your father's personality took over, processed the body. The locations in the diary weren't written by your sister - your father wrote them to mislead everyone."
I recalled that strange nausea. The heaviness in my body, burning stomach - it wasn't psychological. It was from alcohol. Father was skilled at his craft, turning meat-cutting into art. His only flaw was drinking. I'd often thought if Dad were still alive, Frank Wilson wouldn't dare be so brazen.
The media grew more excited about this theory. A dead father's spirit seeking revenge for his daughter?
"A father's love knows no bounds."
"If it was the father's personality, could Miranda get a reduced sentence?"
"Without a body, proving guilt is hard, let alone reducing sentences."
"How do we know she's telling the truth?"
"If she were lying, why confess in the first place?"
Under media pressure, my case, the Thompson Village demolition, and the developer's hired thugs all came to light. Perhaps due to the intense public scrutiny, the mental hospital received an unexpected visitor - my ex-fiancé, Chris Henderson.
Chris looked haggard. When our eyes met, he suddenly burst into tears.
"Miranda, you'll be fine. I sold my house to help fight your case!"
He expressed many regrets: "I shouldn't have listened to my mother, leaving you to bear everything alone. If I'd cared more, maybe you wouldn't have ended up like this."
Watching him sob, I suddenly said: "How are you sure I'm Miranda, not Rachel?"
Chris froze, making me smile. I couldn't help remembering my school days...
Back in school, I became an outcast. Classmates acted normal but stared at me like some curiosity. Once during PE, when the teacher taught self-defense, someone shouted: "Let Miranda share her experience - no one knows better than her." The mockery crashed over me like a tsunami. Everyone examined me with that secret, curious gaze, fascinated by what had happened to me, by the brutal details of the crime. They were curious about everything about the victim.
That's when I realized: physical shame is temporary. Mental torture has no end.
It was during these difficult times that he appeared. Chris had confessed to me before, but I'd ignored him, focused on studies. He repeatedly defended me when others mocked me. Later, when I worked odd jobs at the clinic, he unfailingly came to pick me up.
Before our engagement, I asked him: "Did you tell your mom about my past?"
His parents worked in government, extremely concerned with face. Chris hesitated, evading: "We'll talk later. Who brings up such things? It's not like it's anything good."
Right. Not good. So I understood his family's choice.
"I don't blame you. Your parents' concerns are valid. I understand them."
This time, Chris was determined. He kept visiting me despite his mother's pressure, showing me proof he'd sold his house. After several visits, I gave a satisfied smile.
"Young Henderson, you're a good boy."
The hoarse voice, elderly tone. Chris cut his finger while peeling an apple, his lips trembling: "Who... who are you?"
Who am I? "I" picked up the knife, expertly peeling the apple in one continuous strip. "I am Rachel and Miranda's father." I examined the blade, sizing him up.
Chris was encountering multiple personalities for the first time, at a loss. I waved him to sit. This would be a man-to-man talk.
"I didn't appear before because I wanted to assess you. After all, you stayed silent at the wedding. I was disappointed. How could I trust my daughter to someone like you?"
Chris sat frozen. "Then Frank Wilson... is he really... dead?"
"Probably not," I said.
He hesitated. "If he's alive... why didn't you tell the police earlier?"
"Frank Wilson did many dirty jobs for the real estate company. They almost silenced him. There are moles - I couldn't tell the police. It would leak."
I gave a meaningful smile. "Find him. Clear my daughter's name."
While the city searched for Frank Wilson's body, a photo of him sneaking out was sent to Detective Turner's phone. The date stunned everyone - yesterday? The man everyone thought dead was alive?
When Detective Turner reached Frank's hideout in the remote cabin, he was dead. Poisoned. In this mountain cabin, his body might rot to bones before discovery.
The case was solved quickly. The killer was surprising: Chris Henderson.
He worked at a chemical research institute. The poison came from his lab. He was careful - if police hadn't arrived in time, he could have left no evidence.
About his motive for murder, Chris refused to say. Detective Turner pressed one point: "If Miranda told you his location, why not tell police?"
Finally, he vaguely claimed it was for me. "I... I wanted to avenge Miranda personally, so I killed that scum."
In media reports, Chris became the devoted man who acted on impulse. His lawyer said such premeditated murder warranted at least 17 years. The public pitied him.
"Though he broke up under his mother's pressure, he still sold his house to help Miranda's case."
"Frank Wilson deserved death."
"That's no excuse for murder. Crime cannot be justified."
Cleared of suspicion, I visited Chris in detention with reporters present. He wore wrinkled prison clothes. I embraced him forcefully. Cameras rotated 360 degrees around us. The nation witnessed our love story.
I spoke emotionally: "Don't worry, I'll take care of your mother."
The cameras faithfully recorded my vow. Chris stared at me, his smile worse than crying, face distorted beyond recognition.
As I left, I hugged him tight. "Let me tell you a secret," I whispered. "Know why Frank Wilson found the wedding venue so quickly that day?"
I smiled. "Because I gave him the address."
The night Frank disappeared, I'd actually met him. He threatened to leave us alone for a hundred thousand dollars.
"Give me the money and I'll back off. I know this area's getting demolished - a hundred thousand isn't much."
Facing this beast who'd hurt me, I felt nothing. I said I didn't have that much: "But don't rush. We can make a deal."
Frank laughed sleazily: "With me?"
"At the negotiating table, there are only partners, no enemies."
I could kill him, or use him. Calmly, I said: "I know you need money urgently because you got into trouble helping Mr. Wang evict residents. You fear being silenced, so you need escape money. But as you can see, Thompson Village's demolition is slow. By the time I get compensation, you'll be back in prison."
Hitting the mark, Frank grew agitated.
"My fiancé Chris Henderson's family has two houses in the East District. Help with my plan, and I'll help you get your hundred thousand."
His expression turned strange. "Your fiancé will give me money?"
"Not for me, but for you." I smiled in the moonlight, conspiring with the devil. "Don't you have leverage over him?"
Understanding dawned in his eyes. "What do you want me to do?"
"Make it big. The bigger the scandal, the more money we can demand."
My voice was ice-cold. "First, you need to disappear."
I once thought Chris was my salvation. After getting together, I tried desperately to win his mother's approval. But his family remained dissatisfied. Once I overheard his mother complaining to neighbors: "She acts modest but knows how to spend my son's money. Such a wasteful girl."
But I never asked Chris for money. We kept our expenses separate.
By chance, I saw Chris's transfer records. The recipient's name made me shudder: Frank Wilson.
Why was he paying my attacker?
I investigated the records and found Chris had been paying Frank Wilson since college. I found threatening letters from Frank in Chris's room. Finally, I learned the truth about the rape case.
Chris had wanted to pursue me, but I ignored him. His privileged nature couldn't accept rejection. Someone suggested hiring thugs to scare me, planning a heroic rescue. This explained why Frank Wilson, who drank at bars in East City, came all the way to Thompson Village.
He was hired.
But the snow was too heavy that day. Chris's mother stopped him from going out. Frank, drunk and unsupervised, turned the act into reality. Chris's small malicious intent changed everyone's fate. More precisely, my family's fate.
I gave Frank his instructions. "Follow my plan, you'll get your money. Don't leave the cabin unless necessary, don't tell even your wife." After Frank's disappearance, Chris was most relieved. He finally escaped the blackmail.
But his relief was short-lived. When everyone thought Frank died by my hand, Chris received a threatening letter containing a recording of him hiring Frank Wilson years ago.
He didn't sell his house for my legal defense. During my long stay in the mental hospital, why did he choose that particular day to visit? Because he received the threat. Frank demanded exactly two hundred thousand dollars, or he'd expose everything.
To be or not to be became an eternal question.
He could give the clues to police, but then Frank would be alive to testify. His past actions would be exposed. If Frank died, the problem would vanish. After all, everyone believed Frank had died at the hands of a madwoman.
I recalled my high school teacher's words: every choice matters. Just one question could determine your future. Now, student Chris Henderson, how will you answer this question?
As expected, he went to meet Frank alone. With his biology background, he knew how to accelerate decomposition using environmental factors. Given enough time, this mess could be blamed on me. He never anticipated police arriving immediately after he acted. Even arrested, he wouldn't reveal the truth. Confessing would only add to his crimes. Staying silent made him the good man in public opinion, possibly earning a reduced sentence.
He was always such a calculated, self-serving person.
Thompson Village finally got fair compensation for demolition. Grandma Tang's grandson received surgery abroad. Her grandson's leg, lost to firecrackers thrown by Frank Wilson - while I was away, she watched the security cameras. She'd alert police whenever Chris appeared.
I donated half the demolition money to a foundation helping girls who suffered like me. After confirming my condition was stable, I left the mental hospital. Detective Turner came to see me off on my first day of university. Seeing me in college attire, complex emotions crossed his face.
"Miranda Thompson." After a long silence, he decided to speak, "You never actually had multiple personalities."
I tilted my head, asking why he'd say that.
"You said personalities don't share memories, that you need the diary to communicate. But I found something odd in the doctor's daily records."
He opened the thick file. "July 22nd afternoon, you were Rachel Thompson. When ending interrogation, I got an urgent call and told you I'd be two hours late tomorrow."
"July 23rd, you were Miranda Thompson. At the appointed time, you told staff to wait two hours. I'm certain only Rachel knew this information."
"If you needed written records to communicate, and Rachel left no note that day, this proves the 'separate memories' claim was false."
He found my voice training class records from years ago. "You've been learning voice manipulation all this time."
Playing different people required daily practice. Fortunately, sister and father were the people I knew best.
Outside Z University, cars filled with parents dropping off students lined up. Parents and freshmen beamed with happiness as they entered campus, ready to embark on their next life stage.
"Detective, your guesses aren't evidence," I said.
The man closed his eyes. "True."
"The killer was Chris Henderson, from start to finish. I'm sorry, but that's the fact, isn't it?"
I took his hand. His palm was both cold and sweaty. I knew he stood at a crossroads, making his choice.
I swayed slightly in farewell. "Wish me luck at school."
Without looking back, I strode into campus.