"Honey, come on—is this good enough for you or not?"
His voice message to Bernice was equal parts exasperation and indulgence.
"I didn't go with you to the prenatal checkup. I'll make it up to you with my life if I have to, okay?"
"Honey, answer me. Don't give me the silent treatment."
Nine o'clock at night, and he was reheating the dishes for the third time.
I drifted behind him, counting the minutes in silence.
It was the tenth year after my death.
In three more hours, Curt Baxter would die just like me.
Today was my death anniversary. It was also his wedding anniversary with Bernice.
A sharp ring cut through the apartment.
"Curt, something's happened! Your wife's in trouble!"
The color drained from his face. He sprinted to the study.
The computer sat on the desk, as if someone had taken control of it, looping that same mechanical voice:
"Turn yourself in, or your wife and child die."
He spun around instantly, and when he reached the entryway he stumbled hard enough to nearly fall.
He ran every red light on the way.
By nine thirty, Curt was strapped into the iron chair of the interrogation room.
In the dim room, the camera the killer had hacked blinked red.
"Professor Baxter. You're late."