Richard was frantically scrubbing the floor tiles with a rough sponge, his movements jerky, manic, precise. He didn’t look like a murderer; he looked like a man trying to remove a stubborn wine stain.

And there, sitting right at the threshold of this nightmare, just inches from his father’s blood-soaked knees, was a small boy in dinosaur pajamas.

Leo.

He was clutching a brown teddy bear so tight his knuckles were white. His eyes were wide, fixed on his father with an expression of intense, patient waiting.

“Daddy?” Leo asked as we stormed in, his voice small in the cacophony of the raid. “Are the helpers here to wake Mommy up?”

“Hands! Let me see your hands!” Miller screamed at Richard, leveling his Glock.

Richard froze. The scrubbing stopped. He blinked, as if waking from a trance. He looked at the officers, then down at his son. Slowly, with an unnerving calmness, he raised his gloved hands. They were stained pink, the bleach and blood mixing into a frothy paste.

“Officer,” Richard said. His voice was shockingly steady, cultured, the baritone of an educated man who was used to commanding operating theaters. “Thank God you’re here. My wife… she’s had a terrible accident.”