The street lights flickered past my windshield like strobe lights, counting down the seconds until I had to face the reality of what happened in my own dining room. I parked my truck on the curb, killing the engine. The house sat there in the dark, silent and accusing. The police tape that had been strung across the front door was already sagging, fluttering in the cold wind.
It felt lazy. It felt like they had already decided this crime wasn’t worth the effort of a tight knot. I ducked under the yellow tape and pushed the front door open again. The house was freezing. The heating must have been turned off. Or maybe the cold just lived here now. I didn’t turn on the main lights.
I didn’t want the neighbors to see me. I flipped the switch on my tactical flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating dust modes dancing in the air. Dust that had been kicked up by a struggle. I walked straight to the dining room. In the hospital, I was a husband. Here, in the dark, I was an operator.
