I wasn’t expecting anyone that evening. The house was quiet, the rhythmic ticking of the clock the only sound until the doorbell shattered the calm. When I opened the door and saw two police officers standing there, my stomach dropped. Something in their expressions—calm but grave—told me that whatever had brought them here was not routine.
“The evening had taken on an otherworldly quality,” I would later recall. Every sound seemed amplified, every detail sharp and surreal, as if reality itself had shifted. I stepped aside and let them in, my hands trembling slightly as I led them to the living room.
The familiar comfort of the plush sofa, the soft light from the lamp—suddenly, it all felt like a cruel contrast to the tension hanging in the air. Emma, my eight-year-old daughter, sat clutching her stuffed rabbit, her eyes wide and glassy with fear. I knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Emma,” I said softly, “start from the beginning.”
She took a shaky breath. “Last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs to get some water. I heard voices in the garage, and when I looked, Dad was there… with someone else. They were arguing, and then…” She hesitated, her voice cracking. “Then I saw him hurt the other man.”
Her words struck me like a physical blow. I turned to the officers, searching for disbelief, for reassurance that this was some kind of misunderstanding. But their faces remained impassive—professional. The younger one flipped open his notebook.
“What time did this happen, Emma?” he asked, his tone calm but firm.
“Just after midnight,” she said. “I was scared, so I hid in the pantry. When it got quiet, I went back to bed. I thought maybe I dreamed it… until I saw the news this morning.”
The room felt suddenly smaller. “The news?” I asked, my voice trembling.
She nodded. “They said a man was found dead in the park.”
