He slowly closed his notebook. His shoulders relaxed, but his gaze sharpened. Something had changed in the room, and they felt it too – I could see it clearly in the way my daughter suddenly busied herself fiddling with a non-existent stain on her sleeve, as if tidying up could distract from the intention.
Carter cleared his throat. « Mrs. Hensley, I’d like to ask you a few more questions in private, if you don’t mind. » My daughter started to protest, but he raised his hand. Authority doesn’t need to shout, and I saw her fall silent, stifling any objection she had prepared.
I gestured toward the kitchen. My steps were deliberate, almost graceful—I was paying attention to them. Behind me, I heard my daughter whisper something to her husband, her voice frantic and low, and I sensed the panic in their voices as they pressed together. The story they had prepared was beginning to crumble, and they felt the ground giving way beneath their feet.
When Carter and I sat down at the kitchen table, he lowered his voice. “Ma’am, something’s not right.” His honesty was a sweet consolation. I nodded, even though a deeper truth was slowly unfolding inside me—slow, heavy, undeniable—because I already knew that what was happening in my home wasn’t just a routine check. This was only the beginning.
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