Red across my mother’s stolen robe.
White across Audrey’s empty wineglass.
Nobody moved for a second.
Then the house exploded into motion.
The paramedics carried Leo down the hallway, one of them calling out numbers I did not like. Sophia tried to stand and nearly collapsed. I caught her before she hit the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Those two words almost broke me.
Not because she said them.
Because I knew why.
My wife had been trapped in my house, hurt by my family, watching our son get sicker by the hour, and somehow they had convinced her she needed to apologize.
I helped her onto the stretcher.
“You did nothing wrong.”
My mother made a disgusted sound.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. She is playing you, Lucas.”
Detective Harris turned.
“Mrs. Hayes, I’d stop talking.”
“I know my rights.”
“Then use the right to remain silent.”
