After a long time, he took out his phone and flipped through the album to find a photo of me from three years ago.
I hadn't been disfigured yet, and there was a happy smile on my face.
He operated the phone and kept zooming in on the area around my collarbone in the photo.
Right there was a small mole.
He seemed to think of something, took the car keys, and rushed to the dissecting room.
On the cold dissecting table, the white cloth imprinted my mutilated figure.
He stood in front of the dissecting table, stunned for a while, and finally reached out his trembling hand to lift the white cloth.
Holding the phone, he eagerly searched for that small mole on the corpse, comparing it with the photo.
As if he wanted to prove something.
Unfortunately, a hideous scar extended from my neck to my collarbone, with flesh and blood flying, revealing the bone.
But the trace of the red mole had long disappeared.
He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
"I knew it, how could that woman possibly die!"
After a pause, he took out his phone, opened WhatsApp, and sent a message to the WhatsApp account I used three years ago.
[Betty Gordon, are you disgusted by this pretending-to-be-dead trick!]
[Even if you were dead, I would never forgive you!]
My heart couldn't stop aching, but this path was chosen by myself.
If hating me could make him feel a little better, I would rather have him hate me for the rest of his life.
The police were busy going crazy trying to find the source of the corpse.
Stephen was focused on the autopsy room and painstakingly stitched my mutilated body parts together.
But my head was so badly damaged that it was completely unrecognizable as a human form.
He worked tirelessly for two whole days and nights to repair my head.
Although my face has long been destroyed, my shadow can still be faintly seen from the repaired skull.
Stephen was a little stunned, muttering to himself, "How is that possible..."
"That woman has always been wicked and has caused trouble for so much. How could she die so easily..."
The assistant looked puzzled and asked, "Mr. Green, do you know the deceased?"
Stephen shook his head in despair, took out his phone, and quickly typed a message, [Betty Gordon, stop pretending to be mysterious! The way you are doing it makes me feel even more disgusted with you!]
I was very nervous as I looked at the carefully stitched body on the dissecting table.
Did he recognize me?