Page 11 of Rest In Peace

"Thanks, I…" Her response faltered as her phone finally vibrated—just an email alert. False alarm.

"Go," he said, reading her turmoil like the spreadsheets they scrutinized daily. "Family first."

She didn't need to be told twice. Heels clacking with urgency, she burst through the revolving doors and got into her car. Traffic was mercifully sparse, allowing her thoughts to race ahead to the hospital.

Please, let her be okay. Please, dear God, let her not be sick.

She could still see her pale face as they had brought her in the night before. How quiet she had been, barely breathing, sometimes stopping completely. It was terrifying. Luckily, Steven was there and had been there all night. Being a nurse, he knew how to take care of her properly. He was the right choice, even though it hurt her to have to leave.

The sterile smell greeted her as she navigated the familiar corridors to Victoria's room, where she found Steven, his posture weary but his grip on their daughter's hand unyielding. He was talking to the doctor. Sarah's heart began to race. What was going on?

"Sarah, you're right on time," the doctor’s voice cut through the hush, his face a canvas of professional neutrality.

"Is she…?" Her heart pounded, awaiting the verdict that hovered over them like a storm cloud.

"Steven has all the details," the doctor excused himself, glancing at his watch. "I must attend to another patient."

"Thank you, Doctor," she murmured, but her eyes were already pleading with Steven for answers.

"Steven," she whispered, her voice barely carrying. "What did the doctor say?"

Her heart raced as she looked into his tear-filled eyes. His lips trembled as he spoke, each word hitting her like a ton of bricks.

"It's not good," he said, his voice heavy with sorrow and regret. The weight of his words threatened to crush her, overshadowing any success she may have had in her professional life.

"It's not good at all."

Chapter 15

The shrill whistle pierced the air, and I glanced up from my laptop just in time to see Alex dart onto the field. The crowd's roar was a distant hum against my focused thoughts. He caught my eye and waved energetically, his face lit with the innocent pride of youth. I managed a smile and returned the gesture, but his moment was already slipping through my fingers as I sank back into the world of crime scene photos.

"Go, Alex!" I heard someone shout, and it might've been me in another life—one not entwined with murder and secrets.

Beside me, Angel had befriended a girl her size, their laughter mingling with the cheers. They played, oblivious to the weight of the world, creating their own out of sticks and sunshine on the sidelines.

With a sigh, I reopened the digital file, the glow of my computer screen painting cold light on solemn faces watching the game. Steven Chapman lay there, static and pale, eternally asleep on silken sheets. But something nagged at me—a gut feeling that screamed everything was wrong.

"Mom! Did you see? I scored!"

Alex's voice snapped me back to reality, but it was too late. The goal was a ghost; all I could do was wave, catching the tail end of his triumph. His eyes rolled theatrically before he jogged off, again absorbed by the game.

I couldn't shake the unease, so I grabbed my phone and dialed Detective Ryan. The ringtone was brief, an intrusion on his weekend calm.

"She couldn't have shot him," I blurted the moment he answered.

"Happy Saturday to you, too," Ryan's voice came through, tinged with resignation. In the background, splashes and giggles painted a vivid picture of his family day at the pool.

"Detective, it's about the positioning," I insisted, flicking back to the photo where Chapman lay too perfectly arranged. "That's not what a body looks like when it has just been shot."

"Okay, and?" There was the sound of water being displaced, a child's squeal.

"His legs, arms—all too straight. And the blood splatter, it doesn't match the angle." I swallowed, feeling the tension grip my throat.

"Maybe she moved him," he offered with an exasperated exhale.

"But the magazine, Ryan. It was under the bed, not in the gun." My finger hovered over the incriminating image, the magazine lying inert on the carpet, a puzzle piece fallen far from the board.

"Accidents happen. Maybe she dropped it." I could almost hear him rubbing the bridge of his nose.

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