Death
The fluorescent lights of the morgue buzzed faintly, the only sound in the frigid room as Dr. Ron slid the metal table closer. Cooper, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watched the medical examiner with a heaviness in his chest. He had seen deaths before—accidents, suicides, murders—but something about this girl’s pale stillness made him uneasy.
“This is not a simple death,” Dr. Ron said at last, pulling his gloves tight before leaning over the lifeless body.
Cooper raised a brow. “And how can you tell that with certainty?”
Ron gestured toward the girl’s hands. “You know, Cooper… when someone dies, their body contains truths that they cannot speak. During post-mortem, we learn to look where others don’t. Here—look closely.”
Cooper stepped forward. The girl’s right hand was turned at an awkward angle, and just above her wrist, a dark blotch marred her otherwise delicate skin.
“A bruise?” Cooper asked.
“A defensive wound,” Ron corrected. “It’s a black mark created when she tried to defend herself. Whoever attacked her—he was stronger. She fought, but not enough to stop him.”
Cooper swallowed, taking in the doctor’s grave tone.
“I spoke with the girl’s father,” Dr. Ron continued quietly. “He said she wasn’t involved in any relationship. No scandals, no enemies. Her father arranged her marriage and she agreed without protest. According to him, she had no secrets.”
“But this?” Cooper muttered, staring at the mark. “Secrets always exist somewhere.”
Dr. Ron sighed. “She died in her house the night before her wedding. That alone complicates things. But there’s more.” He lifted the girl’s chin gently to reveal a faint line across her neck.
“A rope,” Cooper murmured.
“Yes. The killer put a rope around her neck after attacking her. He tried to stage the death as a suicide. But he didn’t do it well. Whoever did this wasn’t a professional.”
Cooper straightened, jaw tightening as he processed the information. So far, everything pointed to murder—but not a clean one. Not a calculated one. Something about that frightened him more.
“Anything found at the crime scene?” Ron asked.
“No,” Cooper muttered in frustration. “No clue, no object, nothing we can hold on to.” He rubbed his forehead. “This case is gonna be tough.”
He left the morgue with thoughts swirling like storm clouds. Back at the station, he sat in his small office, tapping his pen against the desk as he replayed every detail. The girl’s life seemed painfully ordinary—no enemies, no conflicts, no past drama. Then why kill her? And why now, days before her wedding?
Sleep barely touched him that night.
The next morning, Cooper was already on the road by sunrise, the air crisp as he approached the girl’s small, weather-beaten home. A thin fog rolled low over the village paths, making the houses appear ghostlike in the hazy morning light.
As he neared the Cliff residence, he noticed a man leaving the house, carrying a large bag as if in a hurry. The man avoided eye contact as he walked briskly down the dirt path.
Cooper stepped out of his car just as the door opened and Mr. Cliff appeared, rubbing his tired eyes. The grief was etched deeply across his face, adding years to his age.
“Mr. Cliff,” Cooper called. “Who was that man who just left?”
Cliff sighed heavily. “He’s the owner of the wedding dress shop. My daughter’s wedding gown belonged to him. We rented it because… well, we couldn’t afford a new one.” His voice cracked. “He came to take it back. Since the wedding… won’t happen.”
Cooper crossed his arms. “Did you notice anything unusual about him?”
“No. He’s been coming and going to this area for years. He often rents gowns to poor families like us.” Cliff’s eyes searched Cooper’s face. “Why are you here, Officer? Have you found anything about my daughter’s… death?”
Cooper drew in a breath. The truth was like a blade he didn’t want to deliver—but it had to be done.
“Mr. Cliff… your daughter didn’t commit suicide,” he said gently. “She was murdered.”
The man’s face twisted in shock. He staggered backward, gripping the doorframe. “M–murdered? But… but why? Who would do such a thing to her?” His voice trembled, each word soaked in anguish.
“I don’t know yet,” Cooper admitted. “But I’m here to re-examine her room and gather anything we may have missed.”
Cliff nodded weakly, wiping his eyes. “Yes… Yes, of course. Come in.”
The house smelled faintly of old wood and lavender—the scent of the girl still lingering. Cooper walked through the narrow hallway to the small bedroom she had lived in her whole life. The room looked untouched since the investigators had last been here: the bed neatly made, the curtains slightly open, sunlight spilling over the wooden floor.
Cooper began to scan the room again—slowly this time. He checked under the bed, behind the dresser, and along the window frame. Nothing. The room was frustratingly clean.
Then he saw it.
A small, worn notebook tucked behind a stack of folded clothes on the dresser. He picked it up gently.
“A diary,” he murmured.
Cliff, who stood at the doorway, nodded. “She used to write sometimes. Said it helped her think.”
Cooper slipped the diary into his coat. “This might help the investigation.”
He paused, then asked, “The gown owner—what’s his name?”
“Mr. Rupert,” Cliff replied. “He has a shop full of wedding dresses. And he rents them out often to families like ours.”
“Where is his shop?” Cooper pressed.
“To the north. At the end of the village. A small stone building with a mannequin outside. You can’t miss it.”
“Good,” Cooper said, his mind already racing with possibilities. “I need to talk to him.”
Cliff frowned anxiously. “Why? Did he do something?”
“Nothing yet,” Cooper replied carefully. “Just a routine conversation.”
“Oh… I see.” Cliff looked unconvinced but too drained to argue.
As Cooper stepped outside, the wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it an eerie stillness. He took one last look at the house, at the grief-stricken father standing in the doorway, then turned toward his car.
Inside the car, he opened the diary. Its pages were filled with neat handwriting, dipped occasionally in ink smudges—proof she had written many of these entries late at night, perhaps by candlelight. Most of the pages spoke of ordinary life, dreams of the future, worries about marriage, and affection for her father.
But a few entries caught his eye.
One particular page had been written in shaky handwriting:
“Someone has been watching me lately. I feel it every evening. When I walk home, I hear footsteps behind me. When I sleep, I hear something outside my window. I told Father, but he laughed and said it was my nerves. But I know I’m not imagining it.”
Cooper’s heart thudded. He closed the diary slowly.
Cooper started the engine, determination setting in. The road to the north was quiet, lined with old oaks and scattered houses. As he drove, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth was waiting for him at that shop.
Waiting… or hiding.
The girl’s last days were no longer silent. Through her diary, she was speaking—and Cooper was finally beginning to listen.
