Chapter 6
Mila's "timeline" became clear within days.
She started with small cruelties—the kind that left no marks but carved deep wounds. When Ethan wasn't looking, she'd take Lily's food away before she finished. She'd lock her in her room for hours, calling it "quiet time." She'd whisper things.
"Your mommy left because she didn't love you enough."
"If you tell Daddy, he'll send you away again—forever this time."
"Nobody wants a crying, clingy little girl."
Lily stopped crying. Not because she felt better—because she learned that crying brought punishment.
I raged. I screamed. I threw every ounce of my ghostly existence at Mila, trying to knock something over, trying to flicker a light, trying to make the world hear me.
Nothing. I was nothing.
But the universe has its own way of delivering justice. And mine came in the form of Ethan's housekeeper, Mrs. Park.
Mrs. Park was sixty-three, had raised four children, and had worked for Ethan since before our marriage. She'd been on leave—her sister was ill—and returned to find an entirely different household.
She noticed everything.
The way Lily flinched when Mila entered a room. The untouched plates of food. The strange silence of a child who used to fill the house with laughter and songs.
On her third day back, Mrs. Park found Lily hiding in the pantry, shaking.
"Little one, what's wrong?" Mrs. Park gathered her up, feeling how thin she'd become.
Lily looked up with enormous eyes and whispered, "Don't tell. She'll send me away."
Mrs. Park didn't press. She was smarter than that. Instead, she started watching. And documenting.
Meanwhile, Ethan's partner Daniel hadn't dropped his suspicions. He'd hired a private investigator—quietly, without telling Ethan—to look into the night of my death.
The PI found something interesting: Mila's car had been in the building's parking garage until 11:47 PM that night. Security had logged it leaving nearly two hours after she claimed to have left.
But the PI found something else—something bigger.
Three months before my death, Mila had visited a specialist. Not for her heart condition. She'd consulted a hematologist about "hypothetical organ compatibility scenarios." She'd asked specific questions about blood types, tissue matching, and what factors made a "perfect donor."
She'd asked these questions using a fake name. But the PI matched her photo to the clinic's security cameras.
Daniel sat on this information for two days, unsure what to do. Then he called Ethan.
"I need to show you something. Don't bring Mila."
Ethan arrived at Daniel's office that evening, annoyed. "This better be important. Mila's making dinner."
Daniel slid a folder across the desk. Inside: the parking garage logs, the clinic security photos, and a timeline that painted a picture no reasonable person could ignore.
Ethan looked through it slowly. His face didn't change—he was trained for that, years of courtroom composure.
But his hands shook.
"This doesn't prove anything," he said, but his voice was thin. "She could've forgotten something and gone back for it. The clinic visit could be for research—"
"Ethan." Daniel cut him off. "She researched organ compatibility three months before your wife conveniently died and became her donor. She was at the building the night Nora fell. The footage is missing—but only from the terrace level."
"Stop."
"You need to hear this."
"I said stop!" Ethan shoved the folder back, standing so abruptly his chair toppled. "You're accusing the woman I love of murder. Do you understand what you're saying?"
"I'm accusing her of planning to kill your wife and steal her heart. Literally." Daniel didn't flinch. "And deep down, you already know something's wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn't have come tonight."
Ethan stormed out.
He drove home in silence, white-knuckling the steering wheel. When he walked in, Mila was setting the table—candles lit, wine poured, looking every bit the perfect partner.
"There you are! I made your favorite." She kissed his cheek.
Ethan looked at her. At the scar on her chest—the transplant scar. My heart was beating in there. My heart was keeping this monster alive.
"Ethan? You okay?"
"Fine," he said. He sat down. He ate. He smiled.
But that night, after Mila fell asleep, he got out of bed and went to his study. He pulled up the building security system's admin panel—the one he'd never checked himself.
The footage from the terrace level wasn't corrupted.
It had been manually deleted. By an account logged in with Mila's credentials.
She started with small cruelties—the kind that left no marks but carved deep wounds. When Ethan wasn't looking, she'd take Lily's food away before she finished. She'd lock her in her room for hours, calling it "quiet time." She'd whisper things.
"Your mommy left because she didn't love you enough."
"If you tell Daddy, he'll send you away again—forever this time."
"Nobody wants a crying, clingy little girl."
Lily stopped crying. Not because she felt better—because she learned that crying brought punishment.
I raged. I screamed. I threw every ounce of my ghostly existence at Mila, trying to knock something over, trying to flicker a light, trying to make the world hear me.
Nothing. I was nothing.
But the universe has its own way of delivering justice. And mine came in the form of Ethan's housekeeper, Mrs. Park.
Mrs. Park was sixty-three, had raised four children, and had worked for Ethan since before our marriage. She'd been on leave—her sister was ill—and returned to find an entirely different household.
She noticed everything.
The way Lily flinched when Mila entered a room. The untouched plates of food. The strange silence of a child who used to fill the house with laughter and songs.
On her third day back, Mrs. Park found Lily hiding in the pantry, shaking.
"Little one, what's wrong?" Mrs. Park gathered her up, feeling how thin she'd become.
Lily looked up with enormous eyes and whispered, "Don't tell. She'll send me away."
Mrs. Park didn't press. She was smarter than that. Instead, she started watching. And documenting.
Meanwhile, Ethan's partner Daniel hadn't dropped his suspicions. He'd hired a private investigator—quietly, without telling Ethan—to look into the night of my death.
The PI found something interesting: Mila's car had been in the building's parking garage until 11:47 PM that night. Security had logged it leaving nearly two hours after she claimed to have left.
But the PI found something else—something bigger.
Three months before my death, Mila had visited a specialist. Not for her heart condition. She'd consulted a hematologist about "hypothetical organ compatibility scenarios." She'd asked specific questions about blood types, tissue matching, and what factors made a "perfect donor."
She'd asked these questions using a fake name. But the PI matched her photo to the clinic's security cameras.
Daniel sat on this information for two days, unsure what to do. Then he called Ethan.
"I need to show you something. Don't bring Mila."
Ethan arrived at Daniel's office that evening, annoyed. "This better be important. Mila's making dinner."
Daniel slid a folder across the desk. Inside: the parking garage logs, the clinic security photos, and a timeline that painted a picture no reasonable person could ignore.
Ethan looked through it slowly. His face didn't change—he was trained for that, years of courtroom composure.
But his hands shook.
"This doesn't prove anything," he said, but his voice was thin. "She could've forgotten something and gone back for it. The clinic visit could be for research—"
"Ethan." Daniel cut him off. "She researched organ compatibility three months before your wife conveniently died and became her donor. She was at the building the night Nora fell. The footage is missing—but only from the terrace level."
"Stop."
"You need to hear this."
"I said stop!" Ethan shoved the folder back, standing so abruptly his chair toppled. "You're accusing the woman I love of murder. Do you understand what you're saying?"
"I'm accusing her of planning to kill your wife and steal her heart. Literally." Daniel didn't flinch. "And deep down, you already know something's wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn't have come tonight."
Ethan stormed out.
He drove home in silence, white-knuckling the steering wheel. When he walked in, Mila was setting the table—candles lit, wine poured, looking every bit the perfect partner.
"There you are! I made your favorite." She kissed his cheek.
Ethan looked at her. At the scar on her chest—the transplant scar. My heart was beating in there. My heart was keeping this monster alive.
"Ethan? You okay?"
"Fine," he said. He sat down. He ate. He smiled.
But that night, after Mila fell asleep, he got out of bed and went to his study. He pulled up the building security system's admin panel—the one he'd never checked himself.
The footage from the terrace level wasn't corrupted.
It had been manually deleted. By an account logged in with Mila's credentials.