Lockdown and the Call
I stood in the kitchen, the house humming with the low thrum of the refrigerator, and the gold watch glinting on the coffee table like a trap.
Mara was in the hallway, her hand trembling around a printed photo of the watch, eyes wide and unfocused.
“Theo, what are you doing?” she whispered, voice breaking.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and lifted the phone.
“Yes, police, I need to report a homicide,” I said, fingers shaking as I dialed 911.
The operator asked for details; I rattled off the empty bedroom, the cold side of the bed, the missing car, the watch, the empty bank account.
As I spoke, the house seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in.
Mara stepped closer, clutching the photo tighter, the paper crinkling under her grip.
“She—she’s gone. I think… I think someone killed her,” I managed.
The line clicked, the dispatcher promised units on the way, and I hung up, my breath shallow.
I turned the deadbolt and slid the lock down, the metallic click echoing in the empty hallway.
Mara stared at the lock, eyes flicking between me and the watch, as if trying to read the truth from the metal.
“We have to wait,” she said, voice a tremor, the photo still pressed to her chest.
I nodded, feeling the weight of every decision grind into my bones.
Outside, distant sirens began their approach, a low wail that seemed too far to catch.
The house was silent again, save for the ticking of the clock and the faint hum of the refrigerator, a backdrop to the dread that filled the room.
Alvarez Interrogates
Detective Alvarez stepped through the front door, his coat still damp from the rain, eyes scanning the scene with practiced precision.
“Theo?” he asked, voice low, as he placed his hand on the lock and let it click open.
I swallowed, feeling the weight of the folder in my hands, the pages rustling like nervous birds.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the kitchen table where the folder lay open, bank statements spread like a map of betrayal.
I handed it over, each page a silent accusation.
“Walk me through your timeline,” Alvarez said, tapping his pen against his notebook.
I recounted the early return, the empty garage, the missing car, the watch on the table, the night‑long search for clues.
His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he flipped to the page showing the transfer to an unfamiliar account.
“This—this is a shell company,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.
He traced the numbers, his finger pausing on a line that led to a name I recognized.
“Elise’s boss, right? The one with the gold watch?” Alvarez asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone.
I nodded, the memory of the boss’s bragging at the dinner in April resurfacing in sharp focus.
Alvarez leaned back, eyes fixed on the screen of his tablet, a faint grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to a transaction hidden deep in the ledger, a direct link to the boss’s corporate account.
See more on the next page