My wife is a fighter. She takes kickboxing classes three times a week. If a stranger broke into our home and attacked her, she would have clawed his eyes out. There would be skin under her nails. There would be defensive wounds on her forearms. I pointed to her arms. Smooth. No bruises on the outside of the forearms.
She didn’t fight back, I said, which means she knew the person. She let them get close. Or she was held down. The detective’s eyes flickered toward the window, toward Victor. It was a micro expression, a tiny split second of fear. I caught it. We are investigating all leads, Miller said, sweating now. But the father, Mr.
Victor, he has been very helpful. He hired a private security team to watch the house now. I bet he did, I said. I walked out of the room. The seven brothers stopped talking as I approached. Victor looked at me with cold dead eyes. Tragedy, Victor said flatly. But we will take care of her. Hunter, you have done your duty. You can go back to your base.
