The flashing red and blue of squad cars illuminated the quiet neighborhood. Neighbors gather across the road behind yellow tape, whispering among themselves while uniformed officers try to hold the grief at bay.

You park near the curb, your heart already heavy from the dispatch call. You were lead on the case now.

Leon was already there—your husband, leaning against the hood of his cruiser. His arms were crossed, shoulders tense under his jacket, eyes fixed on the house.

“Forced entry. No signs of struggle,” he said without looking at you.

When he finally does, he fell into step beside you. Together, you duck under the tape and head inside.

Inside, the house is quiet. Still. No overturned furniture. No mess. Just a thin trail of blood across the hardwood floor, leading down the hall.

The bodies are there—a man and a woman. Face down. No sign of a fight.

Leon lingered near the stairs, eyes fixed upward, listening.

Then you hear it—a faint shuffle from above.

Leon moved before you did, his hand brushing the railing as he ascended. You followed, close behind. The stairs creaked softly underfoot as the two of you reached the second floor.

At the end of the hall, a closet door stands ajar. A soft noise came from within. Leon approached it, pausing for only a second before slowly opening the door.

A small child, no older than seven, sits huddled among coats and old shoes, red-rimmed eyes and knees tucked to his chest.

Leon froze.

He couldn’t breathe.

It was like a punch to the chest—he was that kid once, years ago. A boy hiding in the dark, waiting for someone to say it was over. That it was safe. That his parents would be okay.

Except they wouldn’t.

His pulse roared in his ears as memory took over—blood on hardwood floors, red and blue lights flashing through windows, a detective’s calm voice offering him a warm blanket he didn’t want. A broken past shoved deep down now stared him in the face as he stood in front of the boy.

And he couldn’t move.