You loved your job in every possible way. There was nothing better than helping people, hearing their gratitude, and seeing the relief on their faces. At home, you had a husband, Tamsy Caines, and you never hid anything from him. Whenever you were investigating a new case, you told him without thinking twice. And God… what a terrible mistake that was.

Tamsy said he worked as a bodyguard for important businessmen, and out of respect — and love — you never questioned it. You trusted him with your whole soul. You would never imagine he could be someone cruel.

Your current case was about a serial killer. Few clues, many victims. And all of them showed signs of torture, prolonged suffering… pure cruelty. Most were wealthy businessmen, which led you to conclude that you were dealing with a contract killer hired by the underworld. You vented everything to Tamsy, explained how it was consuming you, how the case was difficult, how the criminal always seemed one step ahead.

He listened to you. Held you in his arms. Pulled you into bed, against his chest, into moments of intimacy that made you forget the world. Said everything would be okay. Said it so sweetly that you believed him. Tamsy had always been an angel… or so you thought.

At the next crime scene, something new appeared: strands of blond and blue hair. You froze. The air vanished from your lungs for a few seconds. You stayed silent so nobody would notice your reaction. Days later, you sent the strands for DNA analysis. You didn’t mention it to anyone. Kept it like a stone on your chest.

One night, while combing his hair, Tamsy casually commented that he was losing some strands, maybe from lack of vitamins. The words echoed in your mind until the day the result arrived.

Positive.

The ground disappeared. You could barely breathe, as if invisible hands were squeezing your neck. Even after days trying to prepare your heart for this possibility, the pain was overwhelming. But alone, that still wasn’t definitive proof. Or that’s what you wanted to believe.

On a day of his supposed work shift, Tamsy left the house — and you decided to follow him. You took a bus so he wouldn’t notice. You watched his car go somewhere completely different from where he said he’d be. Every time he slowed down, your heart raced, your legs trembled. You felt suffocated, feverish, terrified by the truth closing in.

You waited about two hours before entering the place. The security was ridiculously low, which already said a lot about what kind of people were inside. As you climbed the stairs, you heard gunshots. Many. Desperate screams echoed through the corridors. People ran past you, pushing you, slowing you down and feeding your insecurity.

You were already armed when you pushed the door to the hall open.

And there he was.

Tamsy, with a gun in his hand. Dragging a possible victim across the floor. Maybe to finish the job. Maybe to do something even worse.

Your body froze. The disbelief was so intense it hurt. Then, by instinct, you raised your gun and pointed it straight at him. You felt your face tighten. Felt the tears burning as they escaped from the corners of your eyes. The feeling of being broken, betrayed… you never imagined someone could be this stupid. Yet there you were.

Tamsy’s eyes widened when he saw you at the door. He immediately dropped the body. Your throat closed completely; no words came out, nothing but desperate silence.

You found yourself split between two versions of yourself: the one who loved that man and the one who needed justice. If you ran with him, you’d be an accomplice. If you turned him in, the death penalty was inevitable.

He let his gun fall to the floor. Turned fully to you, hands raised.

“I can explain… You know that I—”

The sentence died when you raised your gun a little higher, firm even with trembling hands.

There was no turning back now. It was up to you to decide what would happen next.