Page 2 of Rest In Peace

He flung open the door, the wooden frame creaking in protest, and his eyes were instantly drawn to the scene unfolding before him.

The bed was a mess of disheveled sheets and pillows, but that wasn't what caught his attention. There, sprawled across the bed, was Steven, Sarah's husband. His body was limp and unresponsive, blood seeping out from a gaping wound on his forehead.

Adam's heart practically stopped, grief and shock washing over him in waves. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the sight of the blood-stained walls behind Steven's lifeless form.

But his attention was soon drawn back to Sarah. She stood by the bed, trembling and looking like she had seen a ghost. There was a gun in her hand; she was holding it between two fingers, staring at it while sobbing relentlessly. She looked absolutely terrified.

"Sarah? What have you done?"

Adam's heart shattered into a million pieces, realizing the gravity of the situation. He rushed toward Sarah, trying to reach out to her to make sure she didn't hurt herself or him.

"Sarah, come on, we need to call an ambulance," he pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion.

But Sarah was beyond any help he could offer. Her eyes were empty, her face a pale mask of horror. She looked like she had lost her soul, her grip on reality slipping through her fingers.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Adam could hear the sound of his own breathing, his heart pounding, and the distant thunder from storm clouds gathering again outside. It felt like everything was crashing down around him.

Then, suddenly, Sarah's grip on the gun faltered, and it fell to the floor. Adam lunged forward, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her away from the weapon. She was shaking in his hands.

"It's alright, Sarah, it's okay."

He could feel her body trembling, convulsing with sorrow and guilt as she sobbed onto his shoulder. Adam knew that he couldn't leave her like this. He had to get help for both of them… for Victoria.

Gripping the phone tightly, Adam dialed 911, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Yes, I'd like to report a… an incident. I'm at 139 East Suwannee Lane. Yes, there's been a… a shooting. I think you need to hurry."

Part I

FRIDAY MORNING IN COCOA BEACH, FL

Chapter 1

The morning light spilled across the kitchen counter, casting a warm glow on the neatly arranged sandwiches, fruit cups, and carrot sticks. I sighed, feeling the absence of a third lunch that no longer needed making. Olivia's departure for college had left a hollow space in both the kitchen and my heart.

"Mom, where's my history book?" Christine's voice brought me back from the edge of melancholy as she bounded into the kitchen, her ponytail swinging with youthful energy.

"Did you check the living room?" I suggested, sealing the last sandwich with practiced finality.

"Found it!" she proclaimed seconds later, returning to grab an apple from the bowl on the table. Alex followed closely behind; his eyes were still sleepy, but a soft smile played on his lips. He mumbled a grateful "Thanks, Mom," before digging into his cereal.

I glanced at the clock, tension knotting in my stomach. Any minute now, Matt would be coming down. The anticipation felt like waiting for thunder after the flash of lightning. And then, there it was—the rhythmic thud of crutches on the upstairs floorboards.

Matt appeared at the top of the stairs, his jaw set in a hard line, eyes narrowed with a familiar frustration. Every step seemed to echo his bitterness, a stark reminder of the price he paid on duty—with me by his side, unable to prevent the irreversible.

"Good morning," I said, my voice treading a fine line between casual and cautious.

"Is it really?" Matt's response was terse and acidic. He descended the last step with a graceless thump of wood against the tile.

"Sit down; I'll get you some coffee," I offered, reaching for the pot.

"I'm not hungry," he snapped, maneuvering awkwardly to the table, the crutches clattering against the chair legs.

"Matt, you need to eat something," I pressed, feeling the weight of his dark mood pressing in around us.

"Stop mothering me," he retorted, a scowl etched deep into his features. His anger was a palpable force, charging the air between us.

"Maybe if you didn't act like a child—" The words slipped out before I could stop them, igniting the kindling of our constant conflict.

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