They didn’t tell me much.
They collected samples.
Photographed surfaces.
Checked drains and fixtures.
Looked beneath removable panels.
Then one officer asked whether we had ever experienced a serious incident in the house.
I shook my head.
“Nothing.”
Clare looked at me.
“Think carefully.”
I closed my eyes.
Then remembered something.
“About three years ago, Ethan told me he’d found a broken bottle in the bathroom.”
“What happened?”
“He said he’d cleaned everything up.”
“Did you see the damage?”
“No.”
I swallowed.
“He wouldn’t let me go inside until he finished.”
Clare exchanged a look with the officer.
Then another memory surfaced.
A small red mark on Ethan’s forearm.
He had told me he’d cut himself while repairing something.
I’d never questioned it.
I had trusted him.
Completely.
The police eventually found something beneath the bathroom vanity.
A small section of flooring had been replaced.
