Forty-Seven Stab Wounds and He Still Chose Her

I died ten years ago. Forty-seven stab wounds, then dumped into wet cement — poured into the central pillar of the bridge I designed. The killer gave me three phone calls to prove someone loved me. My birth mother called me a scammer. My adoptive mother had blocked my number. And the man I loved? He was downstairs, on the phone with the woman who replaced me, swearing to marry her the day my bridge was finished. Now the trial is live. The DNA is confirmed. And the man who forgot me is finally forced to remember — but I'm already gone.