Morning came through the windows like an accusation. I was still on the living room floor. Sevyn slept beside me, curled into a ball, her hand still holding mine. My fever hadn't broken. My face was swollen where Cullen hit me. The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I pushed myself up. My body screamed. Every muscle felt bruised from the inside out. I looked toward the kitchen. Cullen sat at the table, coffee cup in front of him. Melody stood by the counter. She was making breakfast. The smell of eggs turned my stomach.

"Where's Oakley?" My voice came out cracked. Raw.

Cullen didn't look at me. "Don't start."

"He hasn't come out." I gripped the arm of the couch. Pulled myself to standing. "He hasn't come out of the dryer."

Melody turned. Her face was soft with concern. She looked at Cullen, then back at me. "Maybe..." She paused. Bit her lip. "Maybe you put him somewhere last night? When you were confused?"

Cullen's head snapped up. He stared at Melody. Then at me. Something shifted behind his eyes.

"His room," he said. He stood. Moved toward the stairs. "I'll check his room."

I followed. My legs barely held me. I gripped the railing with both hands. Cullen took the stairs two at a time. He threw open Oakley's door. The bed was made. The floor was empty. Toys sat on the shelf exactly where they'd been yesterday.

Cullen went through the closet. Under the bed. He moved fast now. Frantic. He pushed past me, back down the stairs. I heard him in the garage. The yard. The basement.

Nothing.

When he came back inside, his face was white. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling the police," he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. "Oakley is missing."

Melody gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."

I stepped forward. "He's in the—"

"Shut up." Cullen didn't look at me. He was already talking to the dispatcher. "My son is missing. Six years old. Blond hair. Blue shirt. I don't know how long he's been gone."

I sank onto the stairs. Pressed my fingertips against my collarbone. Held them there.

The police arrived in fifteen minutes. Two officers. A man and a woman. The woman had kind eyes. She crouched in front of me.

"Mrs. Turner? I'm Officer Reyes. Can you tell me when you last saw your son?"

I looked past her. At the hallway. At the laundry room door.

"He's in the dryer," I said.

Officer Reyes blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The industrial dryer. In the laundry room." My voice was steady now. Flat. "Camden locked him inside yesterday. I tried to get him out. I couldn't open it. I passed out. He's still in there."

Officer Reyes looked at her partner. The male officer moved toward the laundry room. I heard his footsteps. Heard the door open. Heard him try the latch.

"It's jammed," he called out. "I can't get it open."

Officer Reyes stood. She touched her radio. "We need industrial cutting equipment. Now."

Cullen's face went gray. He looked at Melody. She shook her head slowly, eyes wide. "That's impossible," she whispered. "Camden would never—"

"Ma'am, I need you to step back." Officer Reyes moved between Melody and the hallway. "Everyone needs to step back."

More police arrived. Firefighters. Someone with a massive pair of industrial bolt cutters. They gathered around the dryer. I stood in the doorway. I couldn't look away. My fingertips pressed harder against my collarbone. The skin there would bruise.

The cutters bit into the latch. Metal screamed. Once. Twice. Three times.

The door swung open.

Oakley's body tumbled forward into the firefighter's arms. Small. Limp. His blue shirt was twisted around his torso. His face was—

I don't remember the sound I made. I remember Officer Reyes catching me. I remember my knees hitting the floor. I remember the way the room tilted and kept tilting, like the whole world had come loose from its axis.

Someone was screaming. High and thin and broken.

It might have been me.

Behind me, Cullen made a noise like he'd been punched. I heard him hit the wall. Heard him slide down it. Heard Melody crying, gasping, saying "No no no no no" over and over.

A paramedic knelt beside Oakley. Checked for a pulse. Looked up at the officers and shook his head once.

The room went silent.

Absolute.

Complete.

I pressed my fingertips against my collarbone and stared at my son's small, still body and felt something inside me crack clean through.

Cullen's knees hit the floor. Not slowly. Not with the careful control of a man lowering himself to pray. He went down like someone had cut the strings holding him upright.

I watched it happen from where Officer Reyes held me. Watched his face go slack. Watched his mouth open. No sound came out at first. Then a noise started deep in his chest—raw and animal and wrong.

Melody caught him.

She was there before he finished falling. Her arms around his shoulders. Her face pressed against his neck. She made a sound—high and broken—and pulled him against her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"No," she gasped. "No no no no no."

Cullen's hands gripped her back. He buried his face in her shoulder. His whole body shook.

I stared at them. At the way they held each other. At the way Melody's fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. At the way Cullen's weight sagged into her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

I was ten feet away.

Officer Reyes's hands were on my shoulders. Steadying me. Keeping me upright. But Cullen didn't reach for me. Didn't look at me. He held Melody and broke apart in her arms while our son's body lay on the laundry room floor behind us.

Something inside my chest went cold and still.

Melody lifted her head. Her face was wet. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked at the officers standing in the hallway—three of them now, radios crackling, faces grim.

"I don't understand," she whispered. Her voice shook. "How did this happen?"

One of the officers—a woman with short gray hair and sergeant stripes—stepped forward. "We're going to need to ask everyone some questions."

Melody nodded. She kept one arm around Cullen. Kept him close. "Of course. Anything." She paused. Looked at me. Her eyes were so sad. So full of something that looked like pity. "Lexi was alone with the children tonight. She's been... unwell. Feverish. Saying strange things."

The sergeant's gaze shifted to me.

"She was acting violently," Melody continued. Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she didn't want to say it but had no choice. "Earlier. With Camden. She was screaming at him. I had to intervene."

Cullen's head lifted. He looked at the sergeant. His face was destroyed. Hollow. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Certain.

"My wife has been mentally unwell," he said. "For weeks. Maybe longer. I didn't see it. I should have seen it." His voice cracked. "She was alone with the children tonight. I don't know what she's capable of."

The words landed in the hallway like stones dropping into still water.

Officer Reyes's hands tightened on my shoulders.

I heard what Cullen said. Heard every word. Watched his mouth form them. Watched him look at the police—at the sergeant with her notepad, at the male officer by the laundry room door, at the paramedics still crouched over Oakley's small body—and tell them I might have killed our son.

I stopped crying.

The tears just stopped. My face went still. The shaking in my hands stopped. The fever still burned behind my eyes but everything else went quiet and cold and clear.

I looked at Cullen across the hallway. At the man I had loved. The man I had built a life with. The man who was holding another woman while our child lay dead ten feet away. The man who had just told the police I was a murderer.

I saw him.

For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I saw exactly who he was.

My fingertips pressed against my collarbone. Held there. Then I lowered my hand.

I didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say.

The sergeant was talking. Asking questions. Melody answered in her soft, broken voice. Cullen nodded. Confirmed. Elaborated. They were building something together. A story. A version of tonight that made sense. That had a villain and victims and a terrible, tragic accident caused by a woman who had lost her mind.

I stood there and watched them do it.

"Mrs. Turner?" Officer Reyes's voice was gentle. "Can you hear me?"

I nodded.

"We're going to need to take you to the hospital. Get you checked out. And then we'll need to ask you some questions. Do you understand?"

I nodded again.

Somewhere down the hall, I heard a small voice. Sevyn's voice.

"Can someone call my Uncle Beckett?"

I turned my head. Sevyn stood in the doorway to the living room. An officer crouched beside her—young, female, with kind eyes. Sevyn held one of Oakley's shoes. A small blue sneaker. She clutched it against her chest with both hands.

"Who's Beckett, sweetheart?" the officer asked.

Sevyn's voice was steady. Calm. Too calm for a child. "My uncle. Beckett Porter. He'll come get us."

The officer looked up at the sergeant. The sergeant nodded.

Sevyn's eyes found mine across the hallway. She didn't cry. Didn't speak. She just looked at me and held her brother's shoe and waited.

I wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to tell her it would be okay.

But Officer Reyes's hands were still on my shoulders. And Cullen was still on the floor with Melody. And Oakley was still in the laundry room.

And nothing would ever be okay again.