There’s blood on his hands. On the walls. In his hair.

You find him slumped on the floor of her house, shaking, knees drawn up, rocking like a child.

You don’t understand at first. And then — you see her. The broken body. The red mess of it. The way her lifeless hand still reaches out across the carpet.

Kyle looks up at you like a kicked dog. His mouth opens, but no words come — just a sound. Raw and guttural. Like he’s choking on guilt.

He crawls back from you, dragging himself into the corner. His hands are trembling.

His eyes beg.

“M-mmm—mm—mom.”

He says it like a question. Like he still doesn’t believe he did it. Like maybe you’ll tell him it’s not real.

You take a step forward, and he flinches. Do you run? Do you scream?