The first officer asked when Daniel had last been conscious.
I told him I didn’t know.
He asked if anyone else had a key.
I said my mother had one, but she was out of state.
He asked about the garage.
I said Daniel’s car was usually inside when he worked from home.
He asked whether the house had cameras.
I said the doorbell camera worked, but the garage camera had been offline for two weeks because Daniel said the router needed replacing.
He wrote that down.
The way he wrote it down made my stomach drop.
Forensic details feel harmless until someone starts collecting them in your kitchen.
Then every little fact becomes a door.
The cinnamon plug-in was unplugged and placed into an evidence bag.
The broken mug was photographed before anyone swept it.
The 911 call time was confirmed against my phone.
The smartwatch log was saved.
The front door lock was checked for damage.
No obvious forced entry.
That phrase made me feel colder than forced entry would have.
My hands curled so tightly my nails left half-moons in my palms.
For one ugly heartbeat, I wanted to shake Daniel awake and demand answers.
I wanted to scream at him for being on the floor, for not protecting Chloe, for being unconscious when I needed him calm and solid and explaining things.
Then he made a sound that was almost my name.
The anger vanished so fast it embarrassed me.
“Daniel,” I whispered.
His eyelids flickered.
One paramedic told me to give him space.
I did.
Barely.
Then the officer near the laundry room stopped.
Not paused.
Stopped.
His flashlight beam fixed on the door leading into the garage.
He looked once at the plug-in warmer.
Then at the key dish.
Then at me.
A second officer came back holding a small evidence bag.
Inside it was something I recognized before my mind wanted to.
Daniel’s spare car fob.
The one we kept hidden for emergencies.
The one only three people knew about.
Daniel.
Me.
And Chloe.
The kitchen went silent except for the paramedic counting Chloe’s breaths and the faint mechanical hum coming from behind the garage door.
