Psychological Crime Scene Reconstruction
Through my left eye, I watched that other version of myself sprinting down a dim corridor.
He shoved open the office door.
The secretary was packing away cold drinks from the desk. She told him, "Please go back. Dr. Ashmore has already left."
He pressed for his whereabouts.
Sweden. He won't be back anytime soon.
He seemed to want to puncture her lie, asking, "When did he get his visa?"
The secretary said calmly, "His immigration was arranged a long time ago."
He took her phone, dialed, and immediately hung up, dropping the handset. Though I couldn't hear the other end, it wasn't hard to guess—the call couldn't go through.
He rushed through the dim hallway, trying to reach Detective Vance, but her phone wouldn't connect either.
My confusion layered upon itself. The clothes he wore were unmistakably today's—still bearing water stains from when I'd saved Detective Vance. Yet I had no memory of these events at all.
And—Sweden? Immigration?
Then I watched him exit the corridor and come face-to-face with a wall of clocks at the reception desk.
Every clock had its hands frozen—hour and minute hands overlapping at midnight.
A piercing scream seemed to cut through my scalp.
This was tonight's Six Degrees Murder, being staged for me.
I widened my eyes and watched his expression spiral into uncontrollable rage.
I remembered now—every previous Six Degrees Murder, the first step was always to subject the victim to an intense psychological shock. Only then would the psychological suggestion begin. The reason was simple: everyone has psychological defenses.
Dr. Ashmore might not know my past, but he knew exactly what had kept me going all this time—avenging Serena.
By seizing on my failure to exact revenge, he could drag me into the abyss of despair.
Most importantly, if these visions showed what was truly about to happen, Dr. Ashmore was going to flee—tonight.
I pulled out my phone to call Detective Vance.
My fingers stopped over the dial button.
Detective Vance's shadow figure had also appeared behind me.
What had Detective Vance been through tonight?
I needed to keep watching.
He ran to the reception desk and asked Logan which airport Dr. Ashmore had gone to.
Logan calmly flipped through the appointment book.
Behind him, Nolan reached for an ink bottle on the counter. In one clumsy motion, he knocked it over. The bottle shattered on the desktop, splattering ink across all three of them.
Logan handed him an apologetic tissue.
He took the tissue, wiping ink from his face, and asked, "Which airport?"
Logan muttered a curse—the appointment book was soaked with ink. Logan complained incessantly to Nolan: "If you can't handle things, don't mess around. Look what you've done to other people's work."
He lost all patience. He grabbed Logan by the collar and nearly shouted, "The airport."
Logan said flatly, "Larchmont Airport."
There was even a hint of mockery on his face.
He released Logan and bolted into the elevator.
Old Ben was already inside, on a phone call.
Old Ben glanced up from the phone and said, "Mr. Ashford. You've had a rough time."
He eyed the security guard warily.
Old Ben said, "Don't misunderstand. I used to be a police officer myself. Your wife's case—I've been following it closely."
Old Ben continued, "I was just speaking with them. The police have confirmed that Aunt Mae is a major suspect—she's been formally indicted… They'd like to thank you."
Old Ben extended the phone. The call screen displayed a police department number.
Old Ben paused, then added, "They said your help made this progress possible."
That version of me held the phone from the station.
I watched him clench his fist.
He said, "It's fake."
Old Ben gave a noncommittal shrug and pressed the button for the top floor.
The top floor? His gaze grew glassy as he asked the question.
Old Ben said, "Mr. Ashford, why don't you confirm it yourself—with that little detective."
He fumbled for his phone, tapping it clumsily, and accidentally started a video call to Detective Vance.
She picked up.
Aunt Mae's face appeared on the screen.
Aunt Mae's expression was utterly blank, her voice ice-cold as she said, "She's already calculating."
Behind Aunt Mae, Detective Vance sat in her police uniform, staring blankly into space.
Detective Vance's mouth moved, reciting: one hundred and sixty to the sixth power.
Aunt Mae said, "Detective Vance has turned off the surveillance. Don't worry—no one will see the transaction between you and me."
He said, "Transaction…"
Aunt Mae said, "She can live. You just have to go to Serena."
Aunt Mae said, "And if I detect any interference, Detective Vance will receive her answer immediately."
Aunt Mae said, "Child—don't let more people suffer because of you."
The elevator reached the top floor.
He lowered his phone weakly.
Old Ben said, "Go on up, child."
The doors slid open. He lifted his head and saw the staircase leading to the rooftop.
---
The vision ended.
My left eye slowly returned to normal.
Water dripped from my forehead and ran into my eye. I felt nothing—my left eye seemed numb.
A masterful killing blow.
In that scenario, even if I still had my wits about me, there was only a dead end. Let alone the relentless barrage of blows that would strip away what little judgment I had left.
From the very beginning, Aunt Mae's self-surrender had been nothing but a smokescreen—Dr. Ashmore was using her to kill Detective Vance and me. After that, I knew he wouldn't let Aunt Mae live.
Even if the police investigated afterward, he would already be on a plane to Sweden.
From then on—dead men tell no tales.
I checked the time. Eight-fifteen.
No time left. I had to stop Dr. Ashmore from boarding that plane.
And Detective Vance. I wasn't by her side. I didn't know who else could save her.
I dialed—no answer.
My heart plummeted.
No—that couldn't be. Had the Six Degrees Murder already begun?
Answer the damn phone! I nearly roared at the receiver. Finally, the sound of a connection came through.
Detective Vance asked, puzzled, "What's going on? Did you find something?"
I said loudly, "Get out of the station. Now."
She said, "Stop messing around—I'm really busy here."
I glanced at my watch. I knew I couldn't afford to wait. I had no idea when the Six Degrees Murder would begin.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror.
I said, "I'm going to kill him now."
I said, "Detective Vance, I mean it."