Instead, I found broken furniture, bleach in the air, and dark stains someone had tried to scrub from our kitchen floor.

The suburban street where Sophia and I had bought our small, three-bedroom craftsman home three years ago looked picture-perfect under the overcast autumn sky. Neat green lawns, raked piles of orange leaves, and white picket fences. It looked like the kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.

I parked my rented Ford F-150 two doors down, leaving the engine running for a moment as I surveyed the block.

Nothing out of the ordinary. A suburban mail truck was two streets over. Mrs. Gable was walking her golden retriever down the sidewalk.

I stepped out, carrying Marcus’s heavy black forensic bag in my left hand.

I didn't use the front door. Instead, I walked down the side path, past the overgrown hydrangea bushes, and around to the back patio.

I paused near the abandoned garage Samuel had mentioned. It sat on the adjoining vacant lot, surrounded by rusted chain-link fencing and tall weeds. It offered a clear, unobstructed line of sight directly into our kitchen window.

I pulled out my key and unlocked the back door.

The smell of bleach hit me again, even stronger than before, trapped inside the closed house for three days. It tasted metallic on the back of my tongue.

I set the bag down on the dining table, pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, and took out a high-intensity ultraviolet light. I clicked off the kitchen lights and pulled the blinds shut, plunging the room into gloom.

Then I turned on the blacklight.

The UV beam cut through the dark, casting a stark violet glow over the hardwood and tile floor.

Protein fluids—blood, sweat, saliva—fluoresce under specific light spectrums, even when treated with household cleaners. Bleach actually leaves a distinct, smeared chemical trail under UV, showing exactly where a rag or mop was used.

What I saw made my blood run cold.

The entire middle section of the kitchen floor was covered in a massive, chaotic smear of luminescent blue. Someone had dumped half a gallon of bleach right in front of the island.

But bleach couldn't hide the spatter pattern on the lower cabinets.

I knelt down, bringing the blacklight closer to the wooden baseboards near the refrigerator.

Medium-velocity impact spatter.

Tiny, directional droplets of blood had sprayed under the bottom lip of the cabinet door—an area the mop hadn't reached. The angle of the tails indicated that the source of the blood was no more than two feet off the ground when the impact occurred.

Sophia had been on her knees when she was struck.

I felt a surge of lethal rage so intense my hands trembled, but I forced it down, burying it deep into the tactical vault of my mind. Anger makes you slow. Anger makes you careless. Right now, I needed to be a hunter.

I moved the light along the floor toward the hallway.

There were two sets of footprints outlined in faint blood residue beneath the bleach layer.

The first was small—a size six women's sneaker. Sophia.

The second was large. Heavy tread. Work boots or military combat boots, size eleven or twelve.

The footprints led from the kitchen, down the narrow hallway, and stopped abruptly at the back door leading to the garage. Near the door frame, a piece of brass trim had been ripped loose, bent outward as if someone had grabbed it in a desperate attempt to stop themselves from being dragged outside.

I leaned down to inspect the bent trim. Stuck in the splintered wood was a single strand of long, dark hair. Sophia’s.

And right beside it, caught in the latch mechanism of the door, was a tiny scrap of torn fabric.

I pulled out a pair of tweezers from Marcus’s kit and carefully extracted the cloth. It wasn't cotton or denim. It was heavy, flame-retardant Ripstop canvas.

Dark blue. The kind used in high-end tactical gear or private security uniforms.

I dropped the fabric into a sterile glass vial and sealed it.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the living room behind me.

My instincts kicked in instantly. I dropped into a low crouch, pulling my concealed 9mm Glock from my waist holster in one smooth, silent motion. I slipped behind the kitchen island, holding my breath, listening.

Step.

Heavy boots on the hardwood. Someone was inside the house with me.

"Ethan?" a voice called out.

I held my position, staying in the shadows.

A man stepped into the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a dark leather jacket, aviator sunglasses despite the dim lighting, and a silver police badge clipped to his belt.

Detective Vance. The man Richard had mentioned.

He had a gun in a hip holster, but his hand was resting casually on his belt buckle. He looked around the darkened kitchen, his eyes landing on my forensic bag sitting on the dining table.

"I saw the truck parked outside," Vance said, his voice deep and smooth, carrying the relaxed confidence of a cop who thought he owned the room. "Figured it was you. I'm Detective Vance, City P.D. I'm handling your wife's case."

I didn't lower my weapon, but I kept it hidden behind the edge of the kitchen island as I slowly stood up.

"Detective," I said, keeping my voice flat. "You usually enter crime scenes without knocking?"

Vance chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "It’s your house, son. Front door was unlocked. Besides, this isn't a crime scene. The crime happened five miles away at 4th and Elm."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

He was wearing heavy work boots. Size eleven or twelve.

And on the right sleeve of his leather jacket, near the cuff, was a faint, clean stitch line where a patch had recently been removed.

"Right," I said softly, stepping out from behind the island. "4th and Elm. That's what Richard told me."

Vance’s eyes flicked to the blacklight sitting on the counter, then down to the floor where the bleach marks were still faintly visible in the dim room. His casual posture stiffened just a fraction.

"You shouldn't be playing forensics, Walker," Vance said, his tone shifting from friendly cop to quiet threat. "You're a grieving husband. You ought to be at the hospital with your wife, letting us professionals do our job."