Chapter 65 : The Basement and the Blood-Stained Veil
Chapter 65
There is no need—none at all—to pour such effort into preserving a marriage born of uncertainty.
Of course, perhaps his reason for marrying me was nothing more than a well-crafted veil—to project a façade of normalcy to the outside world.
But as far as I can tell… the killer terrorizing Mussen is no chaotic force. He is a man of steel-bound rules—cold, methodical. He chooses only professional women, leaves no trace, and vanishes like smoke in the wind.
‘Perhaps… just perhaps, a sliver of evidence remains.’
And Johannes Schulz, as written in the novel, only murdered women with brown hair and green eyes…
Still, I find solace—however faint—in the fact that I remember at least some of the story. Admittedly, much of it has faded, and I never reached the ending. I abandoned the novel halfway through. But even so, what fragments I do recall may help me navigate this nightmare.
‘I must remain composed…’
Yet the moment I whispered that to myself, my hands clenched around the blanket and my teeth sank into my lower lip.
Composed? How?
No matter how hard I tried to keep my mind orderly, images from the novel invaded my thoughts—unbidden and relentless.
How could I accept that the very man I dined with, laughed with, kissed… was potentially a killer?
We had touched each other—just earlier, we’d done things that now burned with humiliation.
I yanked the blanket over my head, hot tears stinging the back of my eyes as my mind swirled with shame and confusion.
Was there ever anything truly suspicious about him?
And why, of all things, had he chosen a different nickname for the mansion?
Peeking out from beneath the blanket, I stared at Johannes’ sleeping profile, my thoughts a whirlpool of panic.
It was too abrupt. Too surreal. Nothing added up.
Then—like a bolt through silence—a hypothesis formed.
‘What if…’
In my past life, I’d read about killers who were adored by those around them. Charming, helpful, sociable. No one suspected a thing.
What if Johannes was cut from that same cloth?
What if this tender, affectionate husband was nothing more than a mask?
A performance.
‘That’s not entirely implausible…’
Now that fragments of my past life had begun to return, I realized how eerily Johannes’ behavior mirrored the novel.
‘It’s been so long—I might forget all over again. I need to start documenting while I can still remember.’
Driven by mixed emotions, I rose before Johannes did and headed to the office. Since my schedule was clear, I might as well start piecing things together.
But the moment the door shut behind me, my composure crumbled.
The strength in my legs gave out, and I collapsed to the floor.
“Johannes Schulz…”
A whisper of terror.
He might be a murderer.
A serial killer whose name could send the entire city of Mussen into a frenzy of fear.
I covered my mouth to silence the gasp.
‘No… don’t tell me… my father too?’
Based on the letter and journal he left behind… the culprit was described as a high-ranking military figure.
Which meant… Johannes could not be ruled out.
“No… it can’t be…”
My body shivered violently at the thought. Goosebumps bloomed across my skin. I rubbed my arms and chewed my lips again.
Thank God I never mentioned my father to him.
If Johannes Schulz was the one who poisoned him, then his resistance to me going to Böln or traveling alone… it all made sense.
‘No. I still can’t be sure he killed my father.’
I forced my eyes open.
Then, with trembling steps, I made my way to the desk. I took up a pen and began scribbling across a blank sheet.
List of Connections Between Johannes and My Father:
How did my father die?
What illness was mentioned? Cholera? Food poisoning? I must ask Johannes again.
But how much of what he says can I believe? Why would he need my help? What did he gain from my father?
I must remain open to the possibility that it’s all a lie.
Could it be… that Johannes married me simply to learn whether I knew something?
To keep me close—observe—ensure that the truth of my father’s death never surfaces?
Countless tangled emotions roared inside me.
Even though logic told me he might be the killer from the novel, a small voice inside still insisted he had nothing to do with my father’s death.
Would a man truly mad enough to kill… willingly wed the daughter of his victim?
‘Let’s shift focus for now…’
I tried to recall every strange event since we met, frowning deeper with each passing memory.
Why had Johannes insisted that the duchy never hire staff?
Now I knew.
I resumed writing.
All current residents of the Schultz estate bear the title “Shaton”.
It means “shadow” and is likely composed of individuals opposed to the royal family.
The ‘Shatons’—a secret force loyal to Johannes. A shadowy army.
They were the ones who unearthed corruption in the royal family and laid the groundwork for Johannes’ rebellion.
Now they disguised themselves as servants.
That explained everything.
Their sudden change in attitude.
Their acceptance of me as duchess.
What else…?
I halted my hand and pressed fingers to my temple, digging through layers of memory.
I remembered Johannes calling the king a toad—not from our conversations, but from the novel.
And my sudden flashes of memory?
In my past life, I studied forensic science. I could assess crime scenes, identify toxins. That training must have seeped through.
Even my interest in pharmacology in this life felt strangely influenced—like a current flowing from another time.
Edward Windsor…
That name clawed its way back into my mind.
‘Even in the novel, my relationship with Johannes was complicated.’
He had been the police chief of Mussen, if memory served. I recalled how Johannes and the heroine constantly bickered, clashing over everything.
Did Edward discover Johannes’ identity as the killer?
Around the novel’s midpoint, the truth emerged—Johannes was, in fact, the murderer.
And readers… they were furious. Scandalized.
Did I stop reading there too?
It’s likely.
Most of what I knew afterward came from comment sections. Details now lost in the mist of time.
That I remember even this much… felt nothing short of miraculous.
I bit my lip harder and continued writing.
Edward Windsor is a crucial character. He reveals Johannes as the murderer.
Then… Johannes is the true killer? A string of murders… with no bodies…
Suddenly, my hand froze.
‘What… what’s in the basement?’
A chilling memory returned.
Fret Gunner had asked me—no, begged me—not to enter the basement of the western building.
‘Was there even a basement mentioned in the novel…?’
My nails dug into my lips.
A series of murders with no bodies ever recovered… the words rang like sirens in my head.
What if women were imprisoned down there?
Or worse—what if it was where the bodies were hidden?
I pressed the pen so hard into the paper that the ink bled through.
The room was deathly quiet—only the scratch of my pen echoing against the walls.
Should I go to the basement? If there are victims, can I save them? Should I expose Johannes to the world?
Or should I run… far and fast…
If I find proof in the basement…
Then maybe…
Getting a divorce would be the least dangerous choice.
