Chapter 4: The Axe, the Mantel, the Accusation

I tried to sound playful, but there was a warning in my tone.

Quinn, still shaken, rubbed his temples and asked softly, "Do you still remember what happened thirty years ago?" His voice was gentle now, almost kind.

His voice was gentle now, almost kind.

I rested my chin on my hand and told him slowly, "Mr. Hargrove’s youngest son drowned. He offered five thousand dollars to find a bride for a ghost marriage. My dad was greedy, knocked me out, and sent me off in a wedding van."

I traced patterns on the desk with my finger, memories swirling like dust motes in the lamplight.

"But your sister said you drowned yourself." Quinn’s brow furrowed, confusion written all over his face.

He looked at me, brow furrowed, trying to piece it all together.

"It wasn’t drowning. I remember clearly—my dad knocked me out, and when I woke up, I was already sealed in the coffin." My voice shook with the memory.

My voice cracked, the memory sharper than any knife. The darkness, the silence, the weight of the earth pressing down—it all came rushing back.

I frowned, trying to recall the scene in the coffin. Suddenly, a sharp, knife-like pain sliced through my head.

The pain was blinding, like a bolt of lightning splitting me in two.

"Detective Quinn, my head hurts. Flowers, quick, flowers." I pressed my hands to my temples, desperate.

I clutched my temples, the ache making my vision blur. The scent of wildflowers was the only thing that helped.

Quinn saw my pain and immediately placed a fresh bouquet next to me.

He moved quickly, his concern genuine. The flowers’ scent washed over me, cool and soothing.

I leaned over the table, only recovering after a long while. Why’s my headache getting worse?

The question lingered, unanswered, as the pain slowly faded.

"Maybe the headpiece is too heavy and makes your head hurt?" Quinn asked. "Can you take it off?" He reached out, hesitant, as if worried he might offend.

He reached out, hesitant, as if worried he might offend.

I reached up and touched the headpiece, even shook it a little, and a delicate, pleasant sound chimed above my head.

The sound was like wind chimes on a summer night, light and clear.

"Does this headpiece look nice?" I asked, searching his face.

I turned to Quinn, hope flickering in my eyes.

After I died, I spent thirty years waiting at the base of Raven Hill and never saw a mirror. I don’t even know what I look like anymore.

I tried to catch my reflection in the window, but saw only shadows.

Quinn was slightly stunned, looked at me for a while, then told me seriously, "It’s got gold filigree and pearls—it’s really beautiful."

His words were sincere, his gaze steady. I felt a flutter of pride.

"Then it must be beautiful." I happily touched the headpiece again. Even if my head hurts, I’m not taking it off.

Some things are worth a little pain. I smiled, feeling lighter for a moment.

"By the way, you haven’t told me what you were looking at just now." I nudged the stack of files, curiosity getting the better of me.

I nudged the stack of files, curiosity getting the better of me.

Quinn picked up the records from the floor. "Checking the Carter family’s register."

He flipped through the pages, fingers stained with ink and dust.

"Let me tell you." I pressed his hand as he turned the pages. "My dad is John Carter, my oldest brother is Lee Carter, my sister is sixth in the family—everyone calls her Marilyn. I’m seventh, so they call me Maggie."

I recited the names, each one a piece of my lost life.

"My mom died young, and my dad raised the three of us by doing carpentry, but his skills were average, so not many families in town hired him."

I remembered the smell of sawdust, the sound of hammers, the way Dad’s hands always shook a little.

"So your dad sold you for five thousand dollars… That’s just awful!" Quinn said angrily, his hands balling into fists.

His voice was tight, jaw clenched. I could see the anger burning in his eyes.

"Today at the Carter house, I only saw my sister—not my dad or oldest brother. By now, my dad should be over seventy…" His voice trailed off, deep in thought.

He trailed off, lost in thought, tapping his pen against the desk.

I muttered to myself, but saw Quinn staring at the register, his face serious.

He leaned in, lips pressed tight, eyes scanning the page for answers.

I leaned over. "Did you find something?"

I hovered beside him, heart pounding.

"John Carter and Lee Carter—their records have been marked as deceased."

His voice was quiet, but the words hit me like a slap.

The clerk flipped through the Book of Life and Death, found my dad and brother’s names, and said, "John Carter and Lee Carter both died in accidents within a year after your death."

He closed the book with a sigh, the finality of it settling over us like dust.

I never saw them at the base of Raven Hill. I thought they were still alive. I lowered my head and gave a bitter smile.

Grief twisted in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped they were still out there.

The clerk said solemnly, "Not everyone comes to Raven Hill after death."

His words were heavy, the kind that leave a mark.

I looked out of Judgment Hall—countless souls faintly visible in the mist.

The line never seemed to end, souls drifting like lost leaves in a storm.

Jesse Hargrove shouldn’t be among them.

A chill ran through me, hope and dread tangled together.

...

Quinn checked records all night, only dozing off near dawn.

The lamp burned low, casting shadows across his tired face. I watched him sleep, wishing I could dream again.

Soon after, an officer reported, "The Carter family from Willow Lane has come to file a complaint." His voice had a hint of excitement.

His voice was brisk, but there was a note of curiosity beneath it. The whole station seemed to buzz with anticipation.

Quinn hurriedly put on his badge and went to the station. He looked determined.

He splashed water on his face, straightened his tie, and tried to look awake. I floated behind him, invisible to everyone but him.

Besides Marilyn Carter, who wore a cold face, kneeling below were her son Henry Carter and daughter-in-law Emily.

The waiting room was tense, the air thick with unspoken words. Emily clutched a tissue, Henry’s hand resting gently on her back.

As I listened to Quinn’s questioning, I secretly watched the people below.

Henry’s eyes darted nervously, while Emily’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. Marilyn sat rigid, lips pressed in a thin line.

Emily’s eyes were red and swollen from crying. Henry knelt beside her, whispering comfort.

He stroked her hair, murmuring reassurances. She clung to his sleeve, desperate for support.

Marilyn, seeing this, rolled her eyes and turned away.

Her jaw clenched, but she said nothing, her gaze fixed on the far wall.

Quinn said, "Henry, two days ago your mother tried to use the destruction of the mantel as a reason to divorce Emily for you. Do you agree?" His tone was firm but fair.

His tone was firm, but not unkind. He gave Henry a chance to speak his truth.

Henry shook his head repeatedly, pleading for Emily:

He looked at Quinn, then at his mother, voice cracking with emotion.

"Detective, I will never divorce my wife!"

His words rang out, defiant and clear.

"Emily has learned carpentry from my mother since childhood. That mantel was a birthday gift for Mr. Hargrove’s eightieth. She knows how important it is—she would never do such a thing. It must have been my mother who made a mistake."

He squeezed Emily’s hand, standing by her side no matter what.

Her son openly contradicted her in front of everyone. Marilyn looked disappointed and retorted,

She glared at Henry, voice sharp as a saw blade.

"You were out delivering goods for half a month. How do you know she didn’t do it? That day I went shopping with a few apprentices. Only Emily was home. When we returned, the mantel was destroyed. If it wasn’t her, who else?"

She crossed her arms, daring anyone to challenge her logic.

As she spoke, she pleaded with Quinn. "Please, detective, grant Emily a divorce and sever her marriage with my son."

Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steely. She was determined to see this through.

Emily bit her lip and said nothing, tears streaming silently.

Her shoulders shook, but she refused to look up. The silence in the room grew heavier.

Henry couldn’t bear it and pleaded bitterly, "Mom, you used to say Emily was clever and resilient, the most talented of your apprentices. Do you really want to drive her out?"

He looked at Marilyn, desperation etched across his face. His love for Emily was plain to see.

Marilyn was unmoved.

She stared straight ahead, lips pressed tight, refusing to give an inch.

Watching this scene, I felt some sympathy for Henry.

I remembered being young, the way Marilyn always wanted to be the best, no matter who got hurt.

Poor nephew.

I wished I could reach out, put a hand on his shoulder, tell him it would be okay.

When we were young, my sister had a strong personality. When Dad taught us carpentry, she often took my drawings and finished pieces for herself to win his praise.

She was always chasing approval, always reaching for more.

I didn’t expect that now, as a mother-in-law, she’d go even further, forcing her son to divorce his wife.

It made my heart ache, seeing how the past echoed into the present.

Quinn slammed the gavel, instantly silencing the room, and signaled the officers.

The sharp crack echoed through the station, everyone’s attention snapping to him.

Several officers brought out the destroyed mantel, and one presented an axe, the wooden handle of which had a bloodstain.

The mantel was heavy, the gold paint chipped, the break jagged and raw. The axe looked ordinary, except for that ominous smear of red.

Quinn pointed at the bloodstain and said: The room fell silent, all eyes on him.

He leaned in, voice calm but commanding.

"The mantel is made of cherry wood, covered in dark lacquer, with gold-painted landscapes on both sides. It’s large and heavy, not easy to destroy. After inspection, the break matches the marks from this axe. Emily, show me your hands."

He waited, giving her space to respond, but not letting her off the hook.

Emily’s pupils shrank, and, urged by Henry, she slowly opened her hands.

She hesitated, then turned her palms up, revealing the wounds for all to see.

Both palms had dark red, fresh scabs at the base of the thumbs, and several small blisters on her palms that hadn’t broken yet.

The injuries looked recent, the kind you get from gripping an axe too hard for too long.

"That’s right. I did it."

Her voice was quiet, but there was strength in her admission. She lifted her chin, meeting Quinn’s gaze head-on.

Emily’s shoulders slumped. She stopped hiding it.

The weight of the secret seemed to fall away, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Facing Henry’s disbelief, Emily gave a bitter smile.

She tried to reassure him, but her eyes were full of regret.

Quinn asked, "Why did you destroy the mantel?" His voice was gentle, coaxing her to speak.

His tone was gentle, encouraging her to tell the truth.

Emily glanced at Marilyn, then tearfully said to Henry, "You’ve always treated me well. I will never forget it. But this is a grave matter—even if you want to divorce me, I have to speak out. I can’t let kind Mr. Hargrove come to harm."

She wiped her eyes, voice trembling but determined.

She pointed straight at Marilyn, her eyes determined, and declared loudly:

Her voice rang out, steady and clear, filling the room with its force.

"Detective, my mother-in-law tampered with the mantel, intending to harm Mr. Hargrove."

The accusation hung in the air like a thunderclap. Everyone froze, the tension crackling.

Everyone was shocked. Marilyn turned sharply, her gaze at Emily like a sharp arrow.

Her eyes narrowed, fury and fear warring on her face. The truth, once spoken, could never be taken back.