After hanging up, my brother was so angry he was gasping for breath..
"Birds of a feather—her friends are just as bad!"
Each word stabbed me.

I remembered the first time I brought friends home—he ran to every store nearby, buying snacks and toys.
He said, "You've made good friends, Lily. I'm happy for you."
I always called him the best brother.
Three years older, he practically raised me while our parents worked.
He walked me to school and took the blame when I messed up.
Everything was perfect.

Until Anna came.
On the third day, there was progress in my case.
More body parts were found.
It took my brother and Uncle Henry a full day to roughly reassemble them.

Uncle Henry shook his head.
"The killer's methods are complex. It's impossible to determine which injury was the actual cause of death."
My brother agreed, "With the body this fragmented, we'll have to wait for DNA."
Uncle Henry forced a smile, "But at least we estimated time of death: between 5–8 PM two days ago. Small comfort."
Fighting a wave of nausea, I forced myself to look at the dissection table.
The heat had accelerated decay; maggots now teemed across what was once my body, crawling in and out of the flesh.
The image of Anna dismembering me with a knife haunted me.
How could anyone be so cruel?
Even scrutinizing every detail, they found any useful clues.
Mike came in.
Pointing at the missing left chest, he asked, "What happened here?"
Uncle Henry explained, "Parts were found in trash bags at the market—almost taken by stray dogs. The rest are still missing."
Mike studied the gap, puzzled, "The head, limbs are here—only this part is gone."
He muttered, "This is... the heart."
My brother froze, then rushed out and sent a voice message.
"Emma, contact the family of the organ donor—ask where the body is now—"
I watched my brother's hurried departure, a faint, desperate hope stirring.
Was he about to discover the truth?
Then Anna's call interrupted him.
Her cute ringtone felt like a verdict on my failure.
I saw him cancel the message and answer softly, "What's wrong, Anna?"
She said nervously, "John, I saw online—is there really a dismemberment case?"
He comforted her, "Just rumors. Don't worry."
"I saw the video."
Anna added, "After your mom passed, your sister's been living alone—please remind her to be careful."
Yes, my mom was gone.
She died before she could witness the dawn of a new life.
Mom had a congenital heart condition too.
My brother promised he'd operate.
But on surgery day, he never showed.
Mom worried about him, refusing to go into surgery without him.
When I found him, he was with Anna on our couch.
Enraged, I threw a vase at them.
Anna's forehead bled.
He yelled, "Are you insane? Get out!"
Mom's pained expression flashed in my mind.
I cried, "This is my and mom's home! You get out! Mom missed her surgery because of you!"
He finally remembered—stunned and guilty.
He grabbed his hair, "I was too busy... I forgot."
I coldly laughed, "Busy? Busy sleeping with her?"
He fell silent, a flicker of shame and guilt in his eyes.
But when Anna whimpered in pain, he brushed it off.
"It's over. There'll be other chances. Anna still hasn't found a matching heart. Why bring this up now?"
My heart sank.
After Anna's dad was imprisoned, he'd mocked mom and me endlessly.
For a moment, seeing his regret, I thought things could heal.
Until he killed our mom with his own hands.
Mom died.
The day Anna flaunted their relationship in mom's hospital room.
She said the same things to me.
"I drugged John that day—he was like an animal in heat."
"He kept saying he had to go to the hospital, but the drug messed him up—all he could think about was me."
She chose our home to humiliate us—and sent someone to ensure John wouldn't be found.
I stared at her, my eyes burning with tears, and my hand resting on mom's cold body.
The culprit had confessed everything before her.
Hearing it, mom's rage overwhelmed her—she died right there.
"John insisted on operating—I let him, I wanted you to have that hope, and then lose it all!"
"Afterward, I'll play innocent—he'll make excuses for me himself."
Her face was vicious.
I shoved her down the stairs.
At mom's funeral, I pushed John and Anna away.
Anna smiled triumphantly, a red rose pinned to her chest.
Five days after my death, my brother got another call.
He answered angrily, "Stop calling!"
"John... is this really you?"
Mike's voice was cautious.
My brother softened, "Yeah, what is it?"
Mike hesitated, "You're the victim's family."