DEATH SENTENCE
Mathilda’s POV
The cab rumbles beneath me, but my mind is far louder than the engine. I can’t shake the image that’s been haunting me for three days now Monday afternoon, the moment my eyes caught something in the corner of the autopsy photos I’d almost missed. A thin, clean slice across the victim’s abdomen. A knife wound. Neat. Precise. Deliberate.
A wound that does not appear anywhere in the police report.
I had stared at the picture for long minutes, blinking hard as if the mark would disappear on its own. But it didn’t. If anything, the more I looked, the more it screamed at me. And when I cross-checked it with the forensic report, the stab was right there in black and white documented, photographed.
Yet the police file pretends it never happened.
My stomach tight
