Chapter 1

The call came at 10:17 PM, a sharp ring that cut through the quiet hum of my editing software.

"Mr. Miller? This is Officer Davies, LAPD."

My heart seized, a cold fist squeezing the air from my lungs.

"It's about your daughter, Olivia."

I don't remember the drive to LA General, only the flashing lights and the sterile smell that hit me when I burst through the emergency room doors.

A nurse led me to a small, curtained-off area.

Olivia lay on the bed, so still, her face pale and bruised, a bandage wrapped around her head.

Her camera, her favorite vintage Nikon, lay shattered in an evidence bag on a small table.

She' d been at her film club meeting, excited about their new short film project.

"She was found in an alleyway near the school," a doctor said, his voice gentle but grave, "Severe head trauma, multiple contusions."

Devastation wasn't a strong enough word, it was a black hole opening inside me.

Isabella arrived an hour later, her expression unreadable, her expensive suit immaculate.

She barely glanced at Olivia before two detectives pulled us aside.

"Mr. Miller, we need to ask you some questions," one of them, Detective Rourke, said, his eyes hard.

I told them everything, where I was, working late in my home studio, a script deadline looming.

My alibi was solid, security logs from my building, emails timestamped.

Then Isabella spoke, her voice calm, chillingly precise.

"Detectives, I need to be honest."

She paused, and a strange look passed between her and Rourke.

"Ethan... he hasn't been himself lately, very stressed, angry."

I stared at her, confused.

"What are you saying, Isabella?"

She wouldn't meet my eyes.

"He and Olivia argued tonight before she left," she continued, "A bad one, he was furious with her about her film club, said it was a waste of time."

A lie, a complete, baseless lie. We hadn't argued, I was proud of Olivia's passion.

"That's not true!" I protested, my voice rising.

"And Mr. Miller," Isabella added, her voice dropping, "He left the apartment around the time Olivia would have been walking home, I saw him."

The air left my lungs, she was looking directly at the detectives, her face a mask of reluctant sorrow.

"Isabella, what are you doing?" I whispered, the room tilting.

She was my wife, Olivia's mother, and she was feeding me to the wolves.

The detectives exchanged a look, their suspicion now firmly fixed on me.

My provable alibi, the one I was so sure of, suddenly felt like sand slipping through my fingers.