The Third Print

I'm a forensic pathologist. Occupational hazard: I'm hypersensitive to fingerprints.

On the doorknob of my house, there have only ever been two sets of prints. Mine, and my wife's.

During our fifth year of marriage, I came back from a business trip and wiped down the doorknob out of habit. On the third swipe, my portable fingerprint scanner suddenly lit up.

An unfamiliar fingerprint. Positioned exactly at the most common angle used to unlock the door.

I turned and asked my wife. She smiled and said, "Are you being paranoid again?" Her smile was faint. Her hands, chopping vegetables, were completely steady.

But I knew the owner of that fingerprint had been here at least three times. Because the depth of the pressure and the oil residue indicated a habitual action.

I didn't say a word. That night, I pulled up our neighborhood's security footage. On the screen, a man walked into my house on the second day of my business trip. He didn't come out until 3:00 AM.

1

My name is Arthur Cole. I've been a forensic pathologist for eight years. This line of work gave me a weird quirk—a pathological sensitivity to fingerprints.

When normal people come home, the first thing they do is take off their shoes. The first thing I do is wipe down the doorknob. It's not germaphobia. It's professional instinct. There should only ever be two sets of prints on that handle: mine, and my wife, Sarah's.

In our five years of marriage, I wiped it down three times a day. Once when leaving in the morning, once coming home at night, and once before bed.

At first, Sarah thought I had a psychological issue, but she eventually got used to it. She used to joke, "The love of your life isn't me, it's that stupid doorknob." I'd laugh and pull her into a hug. "Doorknobs don't lie to me." She'd punch my shoulder. "You say that like I would."

I never replied. Because back then, I truly believed she never would.

Until that day.

I got back from my trip around 9:00 PM. Sarah was in the kitchen cutting up fruit. The TV in the living room was playing some reality show. Everything was perfectly normal.

I set down my suitcase and instinctively walked over to the front door. I pulled out my portable fingerprint scanner. It was my habit, my obsession.

First scan. The screen showed two sets of prints. Mine, and Sarah's. Good.

Second scan. Still two sets. No problem.

On the third scan, the screen suddenly lit up. Three sets of fingerprints.

I froze. The third set of prints was located exactly at the angle most commonly used to turn the handle. The pressure depth was obvious, the oil residue crystal clear. This wasn't an accidental brush. This was a habitual action.

I turned to look at the kitchen. Sarah was still cutting fruit, her back to me. The knife hit the cutting board in a rhythmic, steady tempo. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Perfectly steady.

"Did anyone come over?" I asked.

She didn't even look up. "No." "Are you sure?" "Positive." She turned around, offering me a slice of apple. "Are you being paranoid again?"

Her smile was faint. Her eyes were perfectly clear.

But my hands were shaking. Because that fingerprint told me a different story— They had been here at least three times. And it happened while I was out of town.

I took the apple slice and took a bite. It was sweet. So sweet it tasted bitter.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I said. "Okay. Go to bed early when you're done, you look exhausted."

Her concern sounded so genuine.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. I pulled out my phone and accessed the neighborhood HOA's security camera system. I had the access codes. Both because I was a homeowner, and because I had previously helped the HOA resolve a legal dispute.

I scrolled the timeline back to the day I left. I fastforwarded from 8:00 AM. 9:00 AM, Sarah leaves for work. 6:00 PM, she comes home. By 10:00 PM, nothing unusual.

I kept scrolling. Day two. 8:00 AM, Sarah leaves. 6:00 PM, she comes home. 9:00 PM—

A man appeared on the screen. He was wearing a black jacket and a baseball cap. He walked right up to my door. Pulled out a key. Opened the door. Walked in.

My grip on my phone tightened. I kept watching. At 3:00 AM, he finally came out.

The brim of his hat was pulled low, hiding his face. But his build was clear. About 5'9", medium build.

I took a screenshot. Zoomed in. Zoomed in again. I saw the tattoo on his left wrist. A snake.

I saved the image. Kept scrolling.

Day four. He came back. This time, he went in at 11:00 PM and came out at 2:00 AM.

Day seven. Him again. In at 10:00 PM, out at 4:00 AM.

Three times. Always in the dead of night. Staying for hours each time.

I closed the security app and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water on my face, but it couldn't extinguish the fire burning in my chest. I took a deep breath. Forced myself to stay calm.

As a forensic pathologist, I had seen too many crimes of passion. Murders committed out of impulse, out of rage, out of a total loss of reason. The people who ended up in prison were always the ones who couldn't control their emotions.

I couldn't be like them. I needed to uncover the truth. And then— I'd make sure the person who deserved it, paid for it.

2

I didn't confront Sarah. Because I knew confronting her was useless. She would lie. She would deflect. She would turn it around and accuse me of being paranoid.

What I needed was evidence. Ironclad proof.

Early the next morning, I went to work as usual. Once I got to the lab, I forwarded the screenshot to Dr. Miller. Dr. Miller was my mentor, a veteran forensic pathologist with over thirty years of experience. The very first thing he ever taught me was: Never trust the words coming out of a mouth. Trust the evidence.

"I need you to run a guy for me," I said, walking into his office.

Dr. Miller took my phone and glanced at the screenshot. "A tattoo?" "Yeah. Left wrist, snake design." "What are we looking for?" "Identity, criminal record, everything you can find."

Dr. Miller looked up at me. "What happened?" I paused for two seconds. "Personal matter."

He didn't ask anything else. He transferred the screenshot to his computer and started running it through the database. Tattoos are excellent identifiers. Especially ones in obvious locations with unique designs.

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Miller called me over. "Found him."

I walked over to the screen. A mugshot was displayed. Kevin Reed, 32 years old, unemployed. Record: Sentenced to three years in prison for felony fraud three years ago. Released six months ago. Address: Rented apartment in a lowincome neighborhood on the edge of town.

I stared at his face. Very average features. But there was an indescribable ruthlessness in his eyes.

"Know him?" Dr. Miller asked. "No." "Then why are we running him?"

I didn't answer.

Dr. Miller looked at me and sighed. "Arthur, you look terrible." "I'm fine." "You're not fine," he said. "I've mentored you for eight years. You think I don't know what that look on your face means?"

I turned to leave. Dr. Miller stopped me. "If this is a family matter, you need to stay cool. Being impulsive won't solve anything." "I know." "You don't know shit," he snapped. "The way you look right now, you look like you're going to kill someone."

I didn't say a word. Because he was right. I did want to kill someone. Just not right now.

When I got home, Sarah had dinner ready. Three dishes and a soup. All my favorites.

"You're home early today," she noted. "Yeah, wasn't too busy." I sat down and picked up my fork. "Perfect, you can come to the grocery store with me. We're out of soy sauce." "Sure."

During dinner, I watched her. Her expressions were natural. Her movements were fluid. There was absolutely nothing abnormal about her.

She put a piece of ribs in my bowl. "Eat up, you've lost weight lately." "Thanks." "Don't be so polite with me." She smiled.

Smiling so gently. So completely fake.

After dinner, we walked to the supermarket. On the way, she linked her arm through mine. "Honey, my birthday is next month. What are you going to get me?" "What do you want?" "A necklace, maybe? I saw a really pretty one the other day." "How much?" "Not too bad, about thirty grand."

Thirty grand. She said it so effortlessly. As if it wasn't thirty thousand dollars, but thirty cents.

I thought about the security footage of Kevin walking into my house. I thought about the snake tattoo on his wrist. I thought about the file Dr. Miller pulled up— A convicted fraudster. Fresh out of prison six months ago.

Why was Sarah associating with a guy like that? For money? Or something else?

"Honey?" She nudged me. "What are you thinking about?" "Nothing," I said. "I'll think about the necklace." "Okay." She smiled. "No rush, we still have a month."

Yeah. Still a month. A month until her birthday. Maybe by then, the whole truth would be exposed.

When we got home, Sarah went to take a shower. I sat in the living room and unlocked her phone. I knew the passcode. It was our anniversary.

She never cared if I looked at her phone. Because she wasn't using this phone to contact him.

Her texts were full of normal conversations with coworkers and friends. Her call log was completely ordinary. No Kevin Reed. Not a single trace.

She was very careful. Or rather, she had anticipated that I might check her phone. So she was using a different method to communicate.

I locked the phone and put it exactly where I found it. I walked out to the balcony and lit a cigarette.

Sarah hated it when I smoked. But tonight, I had to. If I didn't, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from kicking down the bathroom door and confronting her.

The smoke slowly dissipated into the night air. The streetlights in the neighborhood flickered on one by one.

I remembered the day we got married, five years ago. She stood in front of me in her white dress. Smiling so radiantly. She had said, "Arthur, the luckiest thing that ever happened to me was marrying you." And I had said, "Me too."

Back then, I thought we would always be like that. Right into old age.

Looking back on it now. It was all a pathetic joke.

3

The next night, I pretended I had to work late. In reality, I was parked in my car outside the neighborhood gates. I parked at an intersection with a clear view of the entrance. I dimmed the dashboard lights and leaned back in my seat. And I waited.

10:00 PM. 10:30 PM. 10:50 PM.

Sarah walked out of the main gate. She was wearing a black cocktail dress I had never seen before. Her makeup was heavy. Her lipstick was blood red.

A black Audi pulled up in front of her. She opened the back door and got in. The car drove off.

I started my engine and followed. Keeping my distance. Not too close, not too far.

The Audi drove all the way to the outskirts of the city. Traffic thinned out. The streetlights grew sparse. Finally, the car stopped in front of an abandoned, halffinished apartment complex.

Sarah got out and walked straight inside. I waited five minutes. Killed the engine, locked the car, and followed her.

The abandoned building was eight stories high. There were no elevators, and the stairwell was pitch black. I turned on my phone flashlight and slowly made my way up. Every step was calculated and quiet.

First floor, empty. Second floor, also empty. Third floor—

I heard voices. They were quiet, but in this deadsilent environment, they carried clearly. I turned off my flashlight and kept climbing in the dark. The voices got closer.

Fourth floor. Fifth floor. Sixth floor.

The top floor. The eighth floor. Light spilled out from underneath a cracked door. I pressed myself flat against the wall and crept closer.

"...it has to work this time. We have no way out." It was Sarah's voice.

"Don't worry, I've got it all set up." A man's voice. Unfamiliar, yet familiar. It had to be Kevin.

"Tomorrow night, Arthur is on the night shift. We make our move then."

The blood in my veins instantly turned to ice.

"He really doesn't suspect a thing?" Kevin asked. "Nothing," Sarah said. "He trusts me completely." "And when he's dead, how much is the life insurance payout?" "Five million. I'm the sole beneficiary."

Five million. Life insurance. So I was the one who was supposed to die.

I leaned against the concrete wall and took a slow, deep breath. My hands were shaking. Not from fear. From pure rage.

I pulled out my phone and hit record.

Sarah was silent for a few seconds. "Are you absolutely sure nothing will go wrong?" "Positive. I've studied his schedule, and I've scoped out the garage layout. It's foolproof." "Good," Sarah said. "When it's done, we split the five million 50/50." "Deal."

I heard the clink of glasses. Followed by the sound of kissing.

I stopped the recording. Turned around, and slowly walked down the stairs. Every step was silent. So quiet I couldn't even hear myself. But my heartbeat was deafening. So heavy it felt like it was going to smash through my ribcage.

Back in my car, I played the recording. Listened to it all over again. Confirmed I hadn't missed a single detail.

Then, I sent a text to Dr. Miller. "Doc, I need to take tomorrow off." He replied almost instantly. "What's wrong?" "I have some personal business to handle." "What kind of personal business?" "I'll tell you tomorrow." "Alright. Stay safe."

I locked my phone. Leaned back in the driver's seat. Closed my eyes.

All I could see was Sarah's face. That face I used to love so deeply. Now, it only made me feel violently sick.