Chapter 2

The interrogation room was exactly what you'd expect. Gray walls, a metal table, two chairs. The air was cold and smelled faintly of stale coffee and disinfectant. It was designed to make you feel small, isolated, and guilty.

I sat perfectly still, my hands folded in my lap. I had refused a lawyer. It was a risk, but a necessary one. A lawyer would imply I had something to hide. I was playing the part of a victim, unjustly accused and utterly bewildered.

Detective Johnson sat across from me. He didn't speak for a long time, just watched me. I met his gaze, my expression a careful blend of sorrow and confusion.

Finally, he slid a file across the table. He opened it and began to lay out photographs, one by one.

"Robert Peterson. A family court judge. Stabbed."

"Maria Sanchez. A social worker. Stabbed."

"Frank Miller. No relation. A police officer. Stabbed."

He continued, his voice a flat monotone. Thirteen photographs. Thirteen faces. Men and women from all walks of life. A therapist, a lawyer, a city official, two of David's old business partners who had ignored my pleas for help. Each one had been brutally stabbed, the same way David was.

"Do you know these people, Sarah?" Johnson asked.

I looked at each face, my heart a steady, slow drum in my chest. I knew every single one of them. They were the architects of my prison, the ones who had bolted the doors and thrown away the key. The judge who had dismissed my restraining order. The social worker who had called me hysterical. The cop who had laughed in my face when I tried to file a report against David years ago.

"No," I said, my voice soft. "I've never seen any of them before. They're the people from the news, right? The... the serial killer victims?"

I let a shiver run through me, as if the thought was too horrifying to comprehend.

Johnson's eyes narrowed. He wasn't buying it. He pushed another photo forward, separating it from the others.

It was David. Lying on the expensive white rug of our living room. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. The front of his crisp, white shirt was a mess of dark, wet red.

"And this one?" Johnson asked, his voice sharp. "You know him, I assume."

This was the moment. I had to break. I looked at the photo of my dead husband, the monster who had tormented me for fifteen years, and I let out a choked sob. I covered my mouth with my hand, my shoulders shaking.

"David," I whispered. The grief felt hollow, a performance for an audience of one. But it was a good performance. I had years of practice pretending everything was fine. Now I was just pretending it was sad.

"We ran your name, Sarah. Just a routine check," Johnson said, his tone changing. He was moving in for the kill. "And we found something interesting. A little blot on your otherwise perfect record."

He slid a single sheet of paper across the table. It was a police report. A domestic disturbance call from five years ago.

COMPLAINANT: Sarah Miller

ADDRESS: 1400 Ocean Drive, Penthouse A

INCIDENT: Husband, David Miller, physically assaulted complainant. Complainant alleges history of abuse.

RESOLUTION: Mr. Miller appeared calm and rational. Mrs. Miller appeared emotional and unstable. No visible injuries. Parties agreed to separate for the night. No charges filed.

I stared at the paper. The words were a monument to my powerlessness. I remembered that night perfectly. David had thrown me against a wall, his hands tight around my throat, because his dinner was cold. I had managed to break free and lock myself in the bathroom, calling 911 with trembling hands.

When the cops arrived, David was the perfect gentleman, offering them drinks, explaining that his wife was just "a little high-strung." And I, with my wild eyes and desperate pleas, looked like the crazy one. The officer who wrote that report was Frank Miller. Victim number three.

"You told the responding officers your husband was trying to kill you," Johnson said quietly. "But you look like a happy couple. Prominent family. Charity events. What happened to that, Sarah? Did you just get tired of pretending?"

The accusation hung in the cold air. He had found the first crack in my story. The first loose thread. And I knew he would not stop pulling.