"Professor Baxter, you hid this in your home. Did it never occur to you that I'd find it?"
That was the first dress Curt ever made for me by hand. A gift for our wedding anniversary.
Ten years ago, I wore it to a dinner and never came home alive.
Curt said nothing. Slowly, he turned his face away.
The panic in his eyes was impossible to hide.
His hands rested on the table, all ten fingers trembling.
"Impossible."
A murmur so faint I could only hear it because I was pressed against his back.
His heartbeat slammed through the silent interrogation room.
Once. Twice. Again.
Fast and brutal, like a sledgehammer cracking against his ribs.
A flash tore through Curt's mind: a rainy night, ten years ago.
Bernice, drenched in blood, coming to find him.
Lightning illuminating her features, melted and corroded by sulfuric acid, like some helpless ghost.
"Professor Baxter, I killed someone…"
"Stop waiting for her. Your wife… she's not coming back. I didn't mean to, Professor… my face just—it hurts so much."
"Professor, I don't want to go to prison… Please."
Back then, he'd softened.
For the next half hour, Curt didn't move.
No matter how Captain Carter pressed him, he sat as if turned to stone, not saying a word.