After elder brother came back faking his death, the whole family went crazy.

My brother died in a plane crash, rushing home for my birthday. Every year after, my parents made me kneel at his grave and apologize.

On my eighteenth birthday, I was being followed. Terrified, I texted them. Mom called, her voice laced with venom. "You’re just making excuses to get out of apologizing to your brother! Liar! Why couldn't it have been you who died?!"

The line went dead as the attacker’s boot crushed my phone. He dismembered me, scattering my remains across the city. My father, the forensic pathologist assigned to the case, didn’t even recognize me.

Later, my brother returned, triumphant, with the woman he’d eloped with eight years earlier. When they learned the mangled remains were mine…they lost it.

…

Dad was called to the station before they’d recovered all of me. A thunderstorm raged outside. Officers and K-9 units scoured the city. Detective Miller, soaked to the bone, walked in carrying a bloodstained plastic bag.

“This one’s dry, David. See if you can get any prints.”

Dad nodded, opened the bag, and stared at the contents: chunks of reddish-brown flesh, neatly cubed like pieces of meat. His face went white, then red. He sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body trembling with barely suppressed rage.

"This…this monster! These…these were cut from her while she was still alive!"

Eight years. It was the first time I’d seen him show any emotion for me.

Detective Miller stood silently, sensing the shift in the room.

More body bags arrived. Dad pieced me together, bit by bloody bit. He worked for 24 hours straight, hunched over, eyes bloodshot. A flayed, crimson figure began to take shape.

Detective Miller ran to the bathroom and threw up. Wiping his mouth, he asked, "No skin? Trying to avoid leaving DNA?"

"No," Dad gasped, his voice raw. "Torture. She was skinned alive. He wanted to make her suffer."

“And…judging by the coagulation…he poured salt on the wounds, then…carved her up, piece by piece… He watched her agony for hours. Let her bleed out. He enjoyed it.”

Dad was the best. He knew exactly how I died.

“Jesus Christ…” Miller whispered, horrified.

“Her face…he used acid. Unidentifiable. Dental records suggest she’s between sixteen and twenty.”

“The bag with the bones…her right tibia is missing. He probably kept it. It might have had a distinguishing mark, an old fracture, a surgical scar…something to identify her.”

“He’s careful. No prints. No DNA. I can reconstruct her face from the skull, but it’ll take time.”

Miller put a hand on Dad's shoulder, then frowned, staring at my legless torso. "David…this is just like the Rain Killer, eight years ago."

Dad's hand twitched as he pulled off his gloves. Eight years ago, the Rain Killer, cornered by Dad’s evidence, had sabotaged Jason’s plane, killing my brother and himself in the crash. It was a forbidden topic.

“If this is connected…David, you need to tell your wife to keep your family safe. If he’s still using the same MO, Ashley’s the most likely target.”

Da...