The house was eerily, terrifyingly quiet. The only sound was the drip… drip… drip of a faucet somewhere in the distance.

“Police! Show yourself!” Miller screamed, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom of the hallway.

There was no answer. Just a rhythmic scrubbing sound. Swish. Swish. Swish.

We moved tactically towards the back of the house, drawn by the light spilling from under the bathroom door. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. I have seen bodies. I have seen death. But the presence of a child in this chemical fog made the air feel heavy, suffocating.

I kicked the bathroom door open.

The scene before me was a grotesque tableau, a painting from a gallery in hell.

Richard Sterling, a man I recognized from the society pages—a renowned cardiovascular surgeon—was on his knees next to the bathtub. He was wearing a white dress shirt, now soaked translucent, and blue latex gloves. The water in the tub was a deep, opaque crimson. It was thick. It was still.

Floating in that red soup was Sarah, his wife. Her skin was the color of marble, her eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling.