“It’s impossible,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. “Daniel wouldn’t—he’s a doctor. He saves lives.” But the memory of his return last night resurfaced—his late arrival, the tension in his shoulders, the smell of something metallic lingering in the air.
Emma’s tears flowed freely now, her small frame shaking with emotion. “It was in the garage, Mom. Last night. I heard noises. I saw blood on his hands.”
Desperation clawed at me, a primal urge to protect my daughter from the weight of her own revelations. Yet denial was a luxury I could no longer afford. The officer stepped forward, his demeanor professional yet compassionate. “We need to ask you some questions, ma’am. May we come in?”
I nodded, though the motion felt detached, as if it were someone else’s head bobbing in agreement. Emma’s hand found mine, her grip firm, grounding me as the officers entered. The house felt different now, as if the shadows had grown longer, the walls closing in.
Thus began the night when truth unraveled the fabric of my seemingly perfect existence. The night when everything I believed to be solid crumbled, leaving in its wake a fragile understanding of the life we had built—a life now laid bare, vulnerable to the scrutiny of strangers who had come to piece together a story I never imagined could be ours.
