I sat on the living room couch, a light hand-knitted blanket clutched around my shoulders. Outside, red and blue lights flared against the walls in rhythmic pulses. Voices murmured—low, professional, detached. There were cops, forensics, neighbors who'd come to gawk. Inside, it was quieter. Too quiet.
I watched almost lifelessly as the forensics team moved through the house, dusting for fingerprints, swabbing blood samples, photographing every horrific angle. Through the open door, I could see Alistair talking to a cop. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his expression hard.
After a moment, the cop sighed—something defeated in the gesture—and said something to Alistair before glancing up at me.
Then he walked inside. Toward me.
I looked away. My eyes kept drifting back to the hand-painted portrait of Lindsey mounted above the fireplace. Her left eye was slightly crooked, but it was still beautiful.
Footsteps approached and the officer stopped beside me.
