The False Death Certificate

I set the thermos down on the door panel, the metal handle clinking softly against it. The fingerprint lock, replaced just last week for Bruce Young, buzzed sharply in the silent corridor, like a thin needle piercing the quiet around us. "Bruce, do you think your wife might show up out of nowhere?" Her voice was tinged with a deliberately hushed coquettishness, like a feather lightly scraping glass, a faint itch threaded with a restless edge. My fingers froze in midair; the thermos's warmth seeped through my palm, but it couldn't thaw the sudden chill coursing through my veins. That's Rachel Fisher, a college student we've sponsored for three years. She just moved in temporarily last week. "What's there to be afraid of?" Bruce Young's laughter mingled with the rustling of papers, casual. "She's always hanging around the lab; whether she comes back or not doesn't make a difference." The metal handle of the thermos pressed painfully into my palm. I took a deep breath, turned, and walked into the living room, setting the thermos on the coffee table. The glass tabletop reflected my pale face, the fine lines at the corners of my eyes still stained with the iodine I'd brushed against this morning during the experiment—a harsh splash of orange-yellow against my pallid skin. The study door opened. Rachel stepped out first, her pale pink nightgown slipping askew at the neckline, revealing a delicate collarbone. When she saw me, she scrambled behind Bruce, like a frightened rabbit. "Tessa?" There was a barely perceptible edge of panic in Bruce's voice as he reached out to touch my shoulder, his fingertips still warm as always. I took a step back to avoid his hand, and the awkwardness in the air froze instantly. "Let's talk." My voice was calmer than I'd expected—calm like a deep, bottomless lake. Rachel Fisher bit her lip, tears swirling in her eyes, her voice choking up: "Ms. Shaw, it's not what you think..." "Get out." I stared at Bruce Young, my gaze sharp as a knife. Rachel glanced at him timidly, and after a silent nod, she hurried upstairs; the hem of her dress brushed the stair railing, leaving a faint breeze behind. "Tessa, listen to me. Let me explain." Bruce Young closed the door, his tone urgent. "She made the first move; I just lost my head." "Let's get a divorce." I pulled the agreement I'd prepared long ago from the drawer and slid it toward him; the paper glided across the smooth table with a soft sound. His face darkened instantly, his brow furrowing tightly. "Tessa Shaw, don't be ridiculous. Are you really going to ask for a divorce over this?" "This little thing?" I laughed, a sound rusty and sharp, grating against the air. "Bruce Young, we've been married for seven years." Suddenly, he grabbed my wrist, his grip so strong it felt like it might crush my bones, knuckles whitening. "I won't agree! Cindy can't grow up without her mother." Mentioning our daughter Cindy, my heart clenched painfully, as if an invisible hand had gripped it tightly. "You're the one who abandoned this family first." I yanked my hand away from him with such force that even I was surprised. Early the next morning, my mother-in-law, Fiona Clark, was blocking the doorway, her face burning with anger. "Tessa Shaw, what kind of madness are you up to?" She slammed her bag onto the sofa, the strap thudding dully against it. "So what if a man slips up now and then? You can't even bear a son, yet you have the nerve to talk about divorce?" "Mom, this is between me and Bruce." I swallowed the fire in my chest and tried to keep my voice calm. "Listen to me, the Young family's door isn't one you can just walk in and out of as you please!" She jabbed a finger at my nose, almost poking my face. "Cindy is the Young family's own—divorced or not, she stays!" I tightened my grip on the bag in my hand, knuckles whitening, bones standing out clearly: "Cindy is my daughter." "That ungrateful belly of yours, and you still want to take my granddaughter away?" Fiona Clark sneered, eyes full of disdain, "You'd better behave and live quietly—don't push Bruce to end things with you." Bruce Young stood silently to the side, not a word; like a mute statue, his silence cut deeper than any accusation ever could. I looked at him and suddenly felt utterly foreign, as if the man before me had never been known to me. "Two o'clock in the afternoon. Meet me at the Marriage Registration Office entrance." I turned and walked out the door without looking back, my steps steady. The taxi had just passed the third intersection when my phone rang. An unknown number blinked on the screen. "Tessa Shaw?" The voice on the other end was distorted by a voice changer, raspy like sandpaper scraping, grating on my ears. My blood froze instantly, fingertips turning cold. "What did you say?" "If you want her to live, don't try any tricks." Cindy Young's desperate, sharp sobs came through: "Do exactly as I say. Come alone to the abandoned factory in the suburbs. Don't call the police, or suffer the consequences." The call ended, and the busy signal buzzed in my ear like heavy blows hammering my heart. My hand shook uncontrollably as I hurriedly called Bruce Young, my fingers slipping across the screen. "Cindy's been kidnapped!" I practically shouted, my voice trembling with fear. "They told me to go to the abandoned factory in the suburbs and not to call the cops!" "What?" His voice was shocked, edged with panic. "Tessa, don't panic. I'm coming right now." The taxi reversed course and sped toward the suburbs. Outside the window, the scene blurred into a haze—tree shadows and buildings smeared like crushed paint. My mind was tangled, with only Cindy's crying voice calling "Mommy" echoing relentlessly in my ears. The abandoned factory stood in ruins, a chaotic heap of garbage piled at the door, emitting a foul stench. I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. The door groaned a creaking protest. Inside, it was pitch dark; a wave of rust and dust hit my face, choking me into coughing. "I'm here. Let my daughter go." I called out into the darkness, my voice reverberating through the empty factory hall. No reply. Suddenly, a door slammed shut behind me—a sharp "bang" that struck like a hammer to my heart. I spun around and saw Bruce Young standing in the doorway. The anxiety that had been etched on his face moments ago was gone, replaced by a cold, calm stillness. His eyes were like a frozen lake. "Bruce, where's Cindy?" A wave of dread surged inside me, my voice trembling. He said nothing, just gestured to the side. Several men dressed in black stepped out from the shadows, holding sticks. The wooden bats rubbed against their rough palms, making faint noises. "What do you want?" I took a step back, my voice trembling, my back hitting a cold machine. "Tessa, don't blame me." Bruce Young's voice was soft but felt like an ice pick stabbing into my heart. "You were just too disobedient." The men closed in on me, their footsteps heavy. I turned to run, but one of them grabbed my hair and yanked hard. A ripping pain shot through my scalp. A sharp pain surged through me as I collapsed to the ground, my knee striking the hard concrete, instantly bruising purple. An iron rod crashed down mercilessly onto my leg. "Ah—" I screamed in agony, feeling my bones shatter, the searing pain washing over me like a tidal wave. They didn't stop; the rod slammed down onto my other leg next, the dull thud echoing through the factory. I lay trembling with pain, my mind beginning to blur, double images flickering before my eyes. Through the haze, I saw Bruce Young crouching in front of me; his face looked especially unfamiliar in the dim light. "Why?" I gathered the last bit of strength to ask, my voice faint like a mosquito's buzz. "Because you stood between me and Rachel." He said coldly, without a hint of guilt, "Besides, you can't bear a son." Then, a sharp pain seared through my abdomen, like a knife twisting inside me. Darkness engulfed my vision, and I completely lost consciousness.