He stood up, peeling off the gloves with a snap. “Suicide. She slashed her wrists. I came home… I found her like this. I tried to save her… I was just… cleaning up the mess she made so Leo wouldn’t see.”

He gestured to the boy, a performance of paternal concern that made my skin crawl. “Leo, go to your room. Daddy needs to talk to the men.”

“But Daddy,” Leo whispered, pointing at the tub. “You said you were playing doctor. You said you were fixing her with the red knife.”

Richard’s eyes snapped to the boy. For a microsecond, the mask slipped. I saw it. A flash of pure, reptilian malice. Then, it was gone, replaced by the grieving widower.

“He’s confused,” Richard said smoothly, looking at me. “He’s in shock. He’s imagining things.”

Cliffhanger:
I stepped forward, avoiding the slick puddles on the floor. I looked into the tub. The cuts on Sarah’s arms were deep, vertical, and terrifyingly precise. They severed the arteries cleanly. Too cleanly. I looked around the pristine bathroom. There were sponges, bleach bottles, towels. But something was missing. “Dr. Sterling,” I said, my voice cold. “If you were trying to save her, and if she did this to herself… where is the knife?”