I forced my heart rate to decelerate, slipping seamlessly into my clinical ICU persona. In the trauma ward, you do not scream at a hemorrhage; you apply a tourniquet.
“Why are you scrubbing the patio, Mom?” I asked, my voice deliberately flat.
“Melissa is hosting her supper club tonight. I don’t mind, honey. It keeps me busy.”
Keeps her busy. The exact psychological script Derek had been feeding me through the webcam. I glanced toward the corner of the yard. The spectacular, thriving rose bushes I had explicitly bought this property to harbor had been violently uprooted and shoved into cheap plastic buckets in the shade, completely displaced by an enormous, modern outdoor dining set with the retail tags still dangling from the wicker chairs.
“Show me your bedroom,” I commanded softly.
The ensuing tour transformed my beautiful craftsman home into a suffocating crime scene. She didn’t lead me up the grand staircase. Instead, she shuffled through the kitchen, bypassing a marble island overflowing with expensive charcuterie preparations, and pushed open the door to the cramped sunroom attached to the laundry area.
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