Beneath the Skin

Five years into our marriage, I believed I had the most perfect life imaginable.

My wife was gentle and devoted—and she wore the same face as my first love, the woman who died years ago.

I told myself it was a gift from the universe. Compensation for everything I had lost. Then, on our wedding anniversary, an anonymous package arrived at our door.

No bomb inside. Just a bloodstained ring, and a photograph of a woman burned beyond recognition.

On the back of the photo, someone had written words that turned my blood to ice:

"What kind of monster are you holding every night?"