Forensic Girlfriend

Los Angeles The first time Vera Lin saw her that night, she was standing in the rain. Three steps away. Maybe five. The girl held an umbrella, but the water seemed to fall right through her, blurring her edges until she was nothing but a smudge of light and shadow. Vera's chest tightened. Not again. She reached out—slow, careful, like the woman used to approach crime scenes when she knew something bad was waiting. Her fingers trembled. "Hey, sleepyhead!" The voice cut through the rain, sharp and warm at the same time. "What're you standing there for? C'mon, Mom's making dinner." Suddenly there were people everywhere, pushing past her, and then a hand grabbed her wrist—warm, solid, real—pulling her under the umbrella. Another hand reached up to fix her slipping backpack strap. "Seriously, how many times do I have to tell you? Grab an umbrella. You're gonna catch a cold before finals, and then what?" The girl kept talking. Rambling. The way she always did. Vera should've been annoyed. She was annoyed, back then. But now? Now her throat burned, and she couldn't stop staring. "Jenna?" Her voice cracked. "You... you came back?" Jenna looked down at her, smiling. Same face. Same eyes—except the eyes weren't right. They were just... holes. Black pits in that too-pale face, and something dark was dripping out, running down her cheeks like tears. Her skin under Vera's fingers was cold. Slick. Like the bodies she'd cut open a thousand times. Vera screamed. She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat. The clock on her nightstand glowed 4:13 AM. Vera lay there for a moment, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling she'd stared at a hundred times before. Same dream. Always the same damn dream. She reached for the glass on her nightstand, knocked over a bottle. Pills scattered across the floor. She grabbed two, swallowed them dry, not caring how they scraped going down. "You're gonna choke doing that." The voice came from behind her. Vera froze. Every muscle locked up. She turned slowly—half terrified, half hoping—and there she was. Jenna. Sitting on the edge of the bed like she'd never left. "Bad dream again?" Jenna reached out, took the glass from her hand, filled it with water from somewhere. Pressed it into Vera's palm. Her fingers were warm. Soft. Alive. Vera grabbed her hand. Squeezed. Didn't let go. "Jenna... where the hell have you been?" Jenna smiled. That same gentle smile. "I'm back now. That's what matters, right?" Vera pulled her into a hug so tight it probably hurt. She didn't care. Jenna's hair smelled the same—like that cheap shampoo she always used, the one Vera used to make fun of. She pressed her face into it and felt the tears coming and couldn't stop them. "I missed you," she whispered. "God, Jenna, I missed you so much." For a moment, everything was okay. Then Jenna's body went rigid. "What's wrong?" Vera pulled back. Jenna's face was twisted—pain, fear, something else Vera couldn't name. Her clothes were getting wet. Soaking through. Water dripping onto the bed. "I... I don't know..." Jenna's voice shook. "It hurts, Vera. It hurts so bad. Help me. Please help me." Vera's vision went red. "Who? Who did this to you? Tell me! I'll kill them. I swear to God, I'll—" "It was... it was..." Jenna's voice cut out. Her mouth kept moving, but no sound came out. Like a TV on mute. Vera grabbed her shoulders. "Jenna! Jenna, look at me!" Jenna looked at her. Her skin was peeling off. Flaking away in sheets. Underneath—bone. White, clean bone. One of her eyes slipped out of its socket, dangling for a second before falling, and the empty hole kept staring at Vera, kept seeing her. "It was... you." The smell hit her then. Rot. Decay. The smell of the morgue. Vera shoved her away—and her hands went right through. Jenna collapsed into pieces on the bed. Blood—thick, black, stinking—soaked through the sheets, through the mattress, dripping onto the floor. The alarm screamed. Vera sat up. Sunlight. Birds outside. The smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs. She looked at the clock: 7:00 AM. A normal Wednesday morning. She swung her legs out of bed. Her feet hit the floor—and sank slightly. She looked down. The spot on her rug where Jenna had fallen was dark. Wet. Red. Vera closed her eyes. Counted to ten. When she opened them, the stain was gone. Downstairs, Mrs. Chen was already in the kitchen. She'd been with the Lin family for twenty years—cooking, cleaning, pretending not to notice the things that happened in this house. This morning she'd made both Western and Chinese breakfast, which meant she'd heard Vera crying in the night. Vera picked at her food. Scrambled eggs. Congee. A croissant she didn't touch. "Miss Lin?" Mrs. Chen hovered by the door. "The car's ready whenever you are." "Tell them to wait." Vera finished her coffee—black, two sugars—and headed for the bathroom. Forty minutes later, she emerged transformed: red lipstick, sharp eyeliner, a tailored blazer that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her hair fell in perfect waves. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown. The stain on her bedroom rug? She'd deal with it later. "Mrs. Chen, have someone burn that rug." "The Persian one, Miss? From the auction?" "Yes. That one." Mrs. Chen didn't blink. "Of course, Miss Lin." The drive to the courthouse was fifteen minutes of hell. Traffic. Reporters waiting outside. A junior associate from the lab sitting in the back seat with a stack of files, sweating through his cheap shirt. Vera could smell him from the front—sweat and something musty, like he'd worn the same clothes three days running. "Get out," she said. "Excuse me?" "Get out of my car. Sit in the back." He hesitated, face reddening, then scrambled out. Vera watched him climb into the third row through the rearview mirror. Satisfied, she turned back to the window. The associate—Mark, Mike, something like that—would probably quit by the end of the week. They always did. Except the ones who were too desperate or too scared to leave. Those were the useful ones. The news played quietly on the car radio: "...Dr. Vera Lin, chief forensic pathologist at the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner's Office, is scheduled to testify today in the highly controversial Nguyen case. Dr. Lin's previous testimony has led to overturned convictions in three major cases this year alone, earning her both praise from defense attorneys and criticism from law enforcement. Critics call her a 'hired gun' who sells her expertise to the highest bidder. Supporters say she's one of the only forensic experts willing to question shoddy police work..." Vera tuned it out. She'd heard it all before. "Also in the news—Dr. Lin was spotted last weekend at a Malibu beach party with tech entrepreneur Marcus Zhang. Sources say the two have been dating for several weeks now, though neither has confirmed the relationship..." Vera frowned. Marcus Zhang? She squinted, trying to place the face. Tall? Short? Blonde? There'd been a party, sure. Lots of people. Champagne. A hot tub, maybe? She honestly couldn't remember. "Miss Lin?" Mrs. Chen turned from the passenger seat. "Should I have that station—" "Leave it." Vera waved a hand. "I don't care what they say about me." The courthouse steps were a zoo. Reporters. Protesters. A woman holding a sign that said "JUSTICE FOR AMY" with Vera's face photoshopped onto a devil's body. Someone had left a wreath—the kind you put on graves—with a note: "Dr. Death." Vera's bodyguard formed a wall around her as she walked through. Cameras flashed. Questions flew. "Dr. Lin, how do you sleep at night knowing you help murderers go free?" "Is it true you're dating Marcus Zhang?" "How much is the Nguyen family paying you to testify?" Vera kept walking. Sunglasses on. Face blank. Until she saw the flowers. A whole row of them, lined up along the bottom step. Lilies. Chrysanthemums. The kind you bring to funerals. Each one had a photo attached—her photo, the one the news always used, where she looked cold and sharp and nothing like a real person. She stopped. Tilted her head. Almost smiled. "Next time," she said to no one in particular, "use a better picture." The courtroom was stuffy. Air conditioning fighting a losing battle against the June heat and a room full of anxious bodies. Vera sat through two hours of lawyers droning on about procedure and evidence and reasonable doubt. She checked her watch. Filed her nails in her head. Mentally reviewed her weekend plans. Then they called her name. She stood. Walked to the witness stand. The room got quiet in that particular way courtrooms do when someone interesting finally shows up. "Dr. Lin." The prosecutor—a woman in a too-tight suit with too much hairspray—gave her a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "You examined the victim in this case, correct?" "Yes." "And you found the defendant's DNA at the crime scene?" "Yes." The prosecutor's smile got wider. "On the victim's body?" "Yes." "And yet you're here to testify that the defendant didn't kill her?" Vera shrugged. "I'm here to testify about the evidence. What the jury does with it is their problem." The prosecutor's face twitched. She'd probably heard about Vera's reputation. Now she was learning it was true. The next hour was a chess game. Vera presented her findings: the victim hadn't died from the stab wound. She'd died from digoxin poisoning—a heart medication, taken in lethal doses about an hour before the knife ever touched her. The stab wound happened after death. The DNA evidence proved s*x, not murder. The fingerprint on the knife could've been planted. By the time she finished, the prosecutor's expert witness was sweating through his shirt. The defense attorney looked like he'd won the lottery. Vera stepped down, grabbed her bag, and walked out without looking back. The reporters caught her on the steps again. "Dr. Lin! Dr. Lin! Do you think he's innocent?" "Do you ever feel guilty?" "A woman is dead! Don't you care?" Vera stopped. Turned. Looked directly into the camera with those cold, sharp eyes. "You want to know if I care?" Her voice cut through the noise. "I've cut open more dead bodies than you've had hot meals. I've held their hearts in my hands. Their livers. Their brains. I've smelled their decay and touched their rot and listened to their secrets when no one else would." She paused. Let that sink in. "So yeah. I care. I care about the truth. And the truth doesn't give a damn about your feelings." She walked away. Behind her, someone threw a bottle. It hit her assistant in the back of the head. He went down. The reporters swarmed. Vera didn't look back. That Night The house was quiet. Vera stood in her secret room—the one no one knew about, the one she'd built herself behind a false wall in the guest bedroom closet. The walls were covered. Photos. Newspaper clippings. Handwritten notes connected by red string, like in the movies, except this wasn't a movie and the string didn't lead anywhere useful. In the center of it all: Jenna's face. Smiling. Always smiling. That same photo from senior year, the one her mom kept on the mantle until the day she died. Vera traced the outline of Jenna's cheek with one finger. "Where are you?" she whispered. "What happened to you?" The room didn't answer. Outside, thunder rolled. Rain started falling—hard, sudden, the way LA rain always does, like the sky finally remembered it was supposed to be wet. Vera watched it through the small window she'd cut into the wall. Watched it streak down the glass and blur the city lights. Fourteen years. Fourteen years of questions without answers. Fourteen years of nightmares and dead ends and people telling her to let it go. She picked up a bottle from the shelf—whiskey, expensive, the good stuff—and drank straight from it. The burn in her throat was familiar. Comforting, almost. Then she picked up the knife.