My Husband's Perfect Murder

It was the third year of my marriage to Ethan Vance when he became the most devoted rising star in our city's medical field.

Everyone knew he'd sacrificed a chance to study abroad for his wife, who suffered from severe depression. He'd even built a state-of-the-art sterile medical suite in our home for her care.

Until that day, when I found a death certificate dated three days from now, hidden in a secret compartment in his study.

Cause of death: Severe depressive episode, overdose of sleeping pills.

Next to it, was the top-secret autopsy report from my mother's lab explosion accident years ago.

The signatory was Arthur Vance, Ethan's father.

He pushed the door open, carrying the cup of warm milk he prepared for me every single day, without fail. His smile was chillingly gentle. "Summer, it's time for your medicine. Drink it, then get some good rest."

I took the milk, returning his smile with one of my own. "Okay, Ethan."

He had no idea the medicine in that milk had long been replaced with a hallucinogenic neurotoxin, meant for him.

Since he wanted me to die a perfectly natural death, I'd make sure he went mad for all the world to see.

Ethan didn't argue with me the day I found the death certificate.

The rain outside the villa was heavy, streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows. He sat across from me at the dining table, meticulously cutting my steak. The blade scraped softly against the white porcelain, a subtle, teeth-grinding sound.

His movements were elegant, his expression focused, his tone as gentle as if nothing had happened, as if our seven-day cold war didn't exist at all.

"Summer, you've been too stressed lately, always paranoid and jumpy. Eat this meat, it'll do you good."

I looked at the bloody steak, my stomach churned, but I didn't touch it.

"Ethan, I'm not stressed, I'm going to stop my medication. Those pills make me so drowsy all day, I can barely tell the difference in reagent colors anymore."

He looked up at me, and that familiar, suffocating pity immediately surfaced in his deep eyes. It was a condescending gaze, like he was looking at a terminally ill, irrational madwoman.

"Stopping medication isn't a small matter, Summer. Your doctor said your nerves are extremely fragile right now. We'll talk about it when your mood is a bit more stable."

I'd heard that sentence too many times. Every time I tried to break free from this web he'd woven, he would use that gentle tone to press me back into the cage he called "severe depression."

I didn't want to argue with him anymore because I knew the only outcome would be me being forcibly injected with a sedative. I gave him a cold glance, then got up and went back to the bedroom.

The cold war lasted for seven days.

During those days, he said the approval for a new targeted drug at his company required him to work through the night, so he barely came home. In this empty villa, it was just me and a few maids who came to clean on schedule, never saying more than a word to me. I didn't ask where he went, nor did I answer his calls.

That morning, I sat in the living room, organizing the pharmacology manuscripts my mother had left behind. Those manuscripts were my only solace, the only real thing I could grasp onto in this cold house. The doorbell suddenly rang, urgent and sharp.

I opened the door to find two people in white coats, with police officers behind them.

"Hello, are you Ms. Summer Reed?"

I nodded, a faint unease rising in my heart.

One of the officers glanced inside, his gaze lingering for a moment on the scattered manuscripts on the table. His tone softened, carrying a professional, yet sympathetic air.

"Your husband reported that after you stopped your medication, you've shown severe self-destructive tendencies, accompanied by persecutory delusions, and even hoarded dangerous chemicals at home. We're here to verify the situation."

I froze, blood rushing to my head.

Self-destructive tendencies? Hoarding dangerous chemicals?

I'd been home these past seven days, doing nothing but reading and organizing manuscripts. All I did was not answer Ethan's calls or reply to his messages.

Just as I was about to explain, the elevator door suddenly opened.

Ethan rushed out, his usually immaculately styled hair now a little disheveled, his white shirt collar slightly open. His eyes were red, and his chest heaved, as if he'd run all the way up.

He pushed past the officers and pulled me into a suffocating embrace, his grip so tight I could barely breathe. His voice was hoarse, thick with lingering fear.

"Summer, you scared me to death! How could you lock the door from the inside? Do you know how worried I was that you'd do something foolish?"

My body stiffened, a chill starting in my stomach and spreading through my entire body.

The officers and doctors visibly relaxed, even showing a hint of respect for Ethan.

Ethan released me and turned to explain to them, his voice calm, controlled, yet radiating endless exhaustion.

"I apologize for the trouble, officers. Her mental state hasn't been good recently. Last night, she even sent messages saying someone was poisoning her food, and this morning, surveillance showed her searching for weed killer. I was so worried she'd have an accident, I had no choice but to call for your help."

I snapped my head up, staring intently at his flawless face.

"When did I ever send messages like that? What weed killer? Ethan, you're lying!"

He looked at me, his gaze almost helplessly gentle, and even reached out to smooth a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.

"Summer, don't try to act tough in front of the doctors. I know you're in pain. Let's get you better, okay?"

That's when I understood.

He wasn't explaining.

He was making a diagnosis for me.

The more I denied it, the more I seemed to be losing control.

The angrier I got, the more I appeared mentally unstable.

Before the doctors left, they tactfully reminded me to take my medication on time and handed me a business card, saying that if I resisted home treatment, I could consider forced hospitalization for inpatient intervention.

After the door closed, silence returned to the villa.

I shoved Ethan away, my voice trembling. "What exactly do you want?"

He stood still, looking down at me, the worried curve of his lips slowly smoothing out. His voice was a low sigh.

"I'm just afraid of losing you, Summer."

Three years ago, I would have softened.

But now, I just felt cold. Bone-chilling cold.

That night, I opened my phone, and a new message from my father-in-law, Arthur Vance, was in the family Snapchat group.

"Summer's condition has relapsed recently. She almost had an accident today, thankfully Ethan found out in time. Please don't upset her, contact Ethan first if you need anything. The poor child has suffered so much."

A row of agreeing comments followed.

"Ethan, you work so hard, stuck with a daughter-in-law like this."

"Summer is just unlucky, it's a blessing she married Ethan, anyone else would have abandoned her long ago."

"No hurdle is too big for a married couple, she needs to be sent to the hospital for treatment immediately."

I stared at the screen, my fingertips tightening until my knuckles turned white.

Immediately after, my phone buzzed with several cold system notifications:

"Your medical account has been accessed from another location."

"Your health insurance card attempted to bind to a new device."

"Your cloud medical records enabled family sharing."

"Your smart pill box record sync failed, showing multiple unauthorized openings."

I sat in the living room, suddenly feeling the silence was terrifying, every tick of the clock felt like a countdown.

Those actions weren't just to steal my money or simply monitor me.

They were creating a flawless electronic trail.

To prove that I had experienced an episode, sought help, been confused, lost control.

Ethan wasn't acting on impulse.

He had already started creating a trajectory of "severe depressive episode, mental breakdown" for me. He was weaving a death trap everyone would believe.

The next day, I suppressed the fear in my heart and went to the research institute.

I'm a pharmacology researcher, and I've been leading a targeted drug experiment for neurological conditions. I'd poured my heart and soul into this project, tracking data for six months, and preliminary results were imminent.

As soon as I entered the lab, my colleagues, who had been in lively discussion, suddenly quieted as if choked.

They quickly lowered their heads, pretending to be busy, but I could feel sticky, probing, even slightly fearful gazes crawling over my back.

Soon after, the director called me into his office.

He poured me a glass of warm water, choosing his words carefully, his tone firm and non-negotiable.

"Summer, please set aside this targeted project for now. Liam will take over the subsequent data analysis. You'll be on paid leave for three months."

I looked at him, my fingers tightly gripping the water glass.

"Why? My data is fine, and the experiment is at a critical stage."

The director sighed, avoiding my gaze.

"Mr. Vance called me this morning and said you've been experiencing extreme sleep deprivation, severe mood swings, and even serious hallucinations at home, with self-harming tendencies. Summer, we're doing this for your own good. Research is stressful, don't push yourself too hard. If something happens in the lab, no one can afford to take responsibility for it."

It was always "for my own good."

I suppressed my anger, trying to keep my voice steady.

"This is my project, and my work state is perfectly fine. I can undergo a psychological evaluation."

The director shook his head.

"Summer, don't get agitated. Mr. Vance has already sent over your diagnosis report; it was issued by Dr. Willow Hayes. Please listen, go home and rest."

Those three words, "don't get agitated," pierced my chest like a needle, shattering all my defenses into "symptoms of an impending episode."

At noon, Ethan came to the institute.

He carried a sophisticated insulated bag and stood at the entrance of the office area, looking gentle and impeccable. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were full of tenderness, like a considerate, devoted husband.

"Summer has a delicate stomach, so I brought her some medicinal soup and came to pick her up."

My colleagues looked at him with envy, and some female colleagues even teared up.

"Mr. Vance is too sweet! Such a big boss, personally delivering food."

"Summer, your husband really loves you. You need to get better soon."

I sat at my desk, suddenly feeling utterly absurd.

He personally took me off my project, stripped me of my right to work, severed my normal connections with the outside world, and then showed up with soup. Everyone saw his devotion, but they didn't see the noose around my neck.

Ethan placed the insulated container on my desk, his voice soft, but loud enough for everyone around to hear.

"Don't try to act tough. Dr. Hayes said you should reduce mental stimulation these days. I've already gotten leave approved with the director. Let's go home."

I looked up at him, my eyes cold.

"What Dr. Hayes? I've never seen any Dr. Hayes."

He paused, still smiling, and reached out to touch my head.

"Tomorrow, I'll go with you to see Dr. Willow Hayes. Did you forget? We just made the appointment last week."

My heart sank.

He had already prepared the next step. Fabricated memories, forced diagnoses.

That afternoon, while he was in the living room on the phone, I slipped into the bathroom and called Serena Thorne.

She was my university classmate and now a top forensic toxicology expert. She specialized in obscure neurotoxins and was extremely rational and fiercely protective of her own.

After hearing my description, there was a minute of silence on the other end of the line.

"Summer, don't go head-to-head with him," Serena's voice was as cold as ice. "He's setting a trap. Gather evidence first. Draw a blood sample, and find a way to get it to me. I suspect the medicine and milk you drink every day are laced with a hallucinogen."

After returning home, I started checking my electronic devices.

My cloud photo album had several new pictures.

The timestamp was 2:17 AM.

In the photos, a woman wearing my white silk nightgown stood on the edge of the apartment rooftop. The strong wind billowed her skirt, her back desolate and despairing, looking exactly like me.

But that night, I had been fed his so-called "calming medicine" and was sound asleep in my bedroom, not even turning over once.

I downloaded the original images, imported them into professional image analysis software to check the hidden EXIF data.

The device used to take the photos was not my phone.

It was an older model, its serial number showing it was Ethan's three-year-old discarded backup phone.

I stared at the serial number, a chill ran down my spine, cold sweat soaked my clothes.

Ethan walked in, carrying a glass of water.

I handed him my phone, staring intently into his eyes.

"Who is this?"

He glanced at it, his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes showing a perfectly timed hint of heartache.

"Summer, are you misremembering again? Didn't you wear this nightgown last night? You sleepwalked onto the rooftop last night, and I barely managed to pull you back. Don't you remember?"

"I didn't take these photos, and I didn't go to the rooftop! Ethan, what exactly do you want?!"

He looked at me, his eyes filled with deep pity, and even stepped forward as if to hug me.

"You've been sleeping so poorly recently; your sleepwalking symptoms are getting worse. Memory gaps are normal. Don't be afraid, I'm here."

I suddenly laughed, tears almost streaming down my face.

So, he had planned it all along.

If I refuted him, it was memory gaps, sleepwalking.

If I was angry, it was emotional breakdown, mania.

If I was suspicious, it was persecutory delusions.

Ethan took an appointment slip from his briefcase and gently placed it on the table.

My name was written on it.

Deep psychological intervention and psychiatric evaluation appointment.

Institution: Willow Hayes Mental Health Recovery Center.

"Summer, tomorrow I'll go with you to see Dr. Hayes."

His voice was low and soft, as if coaxing a disobedient child.

"You need professional help."

I had thought about leaving immediately, escaping far away.

But my identification, the core experimental data my mother left behind, the formula database, and those unencrypted experimental records were all in the basement of this house. They were something my mother died for.

More importantly, I knew he had already started paving the path for my "suicide due to mental illness."

If I left now, no matter where I died, I would walk right into his script, becoming the perfect footnote to his "devoted husband" persona.