My wife. Emily. Dead. Suddenly. Those were the words the doctors had used.

Those were the words printed on the death certificate. Those were the words everyone had repeated until they became something I was afraid to question.

“She had a heart attack,” I said.

My voice sounded strange.

Flat.

Almost unfamiliar.

Patricia swallowed.

“No,” she whispered.

Ava looked up at me.

“Daddy…”

I crouched beside her.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Daddy’s here.”

But I wasn’t sure it was okay.

Nothing about that house felt okay anymore.

I lifted Ava into my arms first. She weighed almost nothing.

Too little.

Her cheek pressed against my shoulder, and I felt how cold she was.

“Daddy, I’m hungry.”

That broke something inside me.

“I know.”

My voice cracked.

“I know, baby.”

I picked up Lucas with my other arm.

He whimpered when I touched him, and I realized there were dark marks around his wrist.

Fingerprints.

Someone had been holding him too tightly.

I looked at Patricia.

“What did you do to my children?”

She shook her head quickly.

“I didn’t hurt them.”

I stared at her.

“The milk?”

“They spilled it.”

“You poured it.”

“They were misbehaving.”

“For three days?”

She didn’t answer.

I took out my phone.

My hand was shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.

“I’m calling the police.”

Patricia’s expression changed immediately.

“No.”

Just one word.

But it wasn’t the frightened protest of an innocent person.

It was panic.

“No, you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.”

“You don’t!”

Her voice echoed through the laundry room.

Ava flinched.

I stepped in front of my children.

Patricia lowered her voice.

“If you call the police, you’ll never learn what happened to Emily.”

I froze.

She saw it.

And that was when I understood.

Whatever she knew, she had been saving it.

Not out of guilt.

Not out of remorse.

She had been saving it as leverage.

“What happened to Emily?”

Patricia glanced toward the hallway.

Then toward the windows.

Then at the children.

“Not here.”

“You don’t get to choose where we talk.”

“I do if you want the truth.”

I felt my jaw tighten.

“You’ve got ten seconds.”

She stared at me.

Then she whispered:

“Emily wasn’t supposed to die that night.”

My stomach dropped.

“What does that mean?”

Patricia’s eyes filled with tears.

Real tears.

Or at least they looked real.

“Your wife was poisoned.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I heard the refrigerator humming.

Water dripping from the washing machine.

Ava breathing against my chest.

Everything else disappeared.

“No.”

Patricia nodded slowly.

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

I remembered Emily’s last night.

The dinner.

The wine she barely touched.

Her sudden headache.

The way she had pressed a hand against her chest.

The ambulance.

The flashing lights against our bedroom curtains.

The doctor telling me there was nothing they could do.

I had been too shattered to ask questions.

Too broken to imagine someone had done something to her.

“Who?” I whispered.

Patricia looked directly at me.

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know she was poisoned?”

“Because I saw what happened.”

My arms tightened around Ava.

“You were there?”

Patricia nodded.

“I was in the kitchen.”

Ava suddenly spoke.

“Daddy…”

I looked down.

She was staring at Patricia.

“Mommy told me not to drink the red juice.”

Patricia went pale.

I slowly turned toward my daughter.

“What red juice?”

Ava’s lip trembled.

“The juice Mommy made.”

Patricia closed her eyes.

And I knew there was more.

Much more.

I carried the children into the kitchen.

The house looked exactly as I remembered it.

Emily’s ceramic mug still sat in the cabinet.

Her favorite blue bowl was on the second shelf.

A photograph of the four of us stood beside the fruit basket.

Emily smiling.

Ava on her lap.

Lucas asleep against her shoulder.

Me standing behind them with one hand on Emily’s waist.

I looked at that photograph and felt something inside me collapse.

How many times had I walked past it without realizing I was living beside a crime scene?

“Where is the red juice?” I asked.

Patricia didn’t answer.

“Where?”

She pointed toward the pantry.

I opened the door.

There were bottles, cans, cereal boxes, cleaning supplies.

Then I saw something pushed behind a stack of paper towels.

A small glass bottle.

The label had been peeled away.

My heart began pounding.

I reached for it.

“Don’t!”

Patricia lunged forward.

I stepped back.

She stopped.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.”

“You just told me my wife was poisoned.”

“I said I saw what happened.”

“Then tell me everything.”

Patricia stared at the bottle.

Then she whispered:

“Emily discovered something.”

“What?”

“She discovered someone had been taking money from your company.”

I frowned.

“What does that have to do with her death?”

“Everything.”

I remembered the last few months before Emily died.

The late-night phone calls.

The arguments.

The way she had started checking our bank statements.

At the time, I thought she was worried about household expenses.

I had been traveling constantly.

I hadn’t paid attention.

That realization hurt almost as much as losing her.

“She told me she found irregular transfers,” Patricia continued. “Money disappearing through accounts you didn’t know existed.”

“Whose accounts?”

Patricia shook her head.

“She never told me.”

“Why?”

“Because she was afraid.”

I looked at her.

“Afraid of whom?”

Patricia’s eyes moved toward the photograph.

“Someone close to you.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Someone close.

My mind immediately began searching through names.

Family.

Employees.

Friends.

People who had visited our house.

People who had keys.