The doorbell rang at 11:47 PM on a freezing Tuesday, slicing through the quiet like a warning. Nobody comes at that hour with good news. My chest tightened instantly, a mix of fear and dread I couldn’t shake. I peered through the peephole.
There was my sister, Rachel, shifting nervously on the porch. Behind her, a man in a wrinkled suit—sleep-deprived, serious, and holding a manila folder that carried the weight of the world.
I opened the door. Rachel’s face streaked with tears.
“This is Detective Morrison,” she said, voice trembling.
He stepped forward, the kind of presence that announces life-altering news before a word is spoken.
“Mrs. Patterson,” he began carefully. “We have information about your brother.”
“Is he alive?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
The silence hit harder than any answer.
“We found your brother’s body this afternoon. I’m very sorry.”
My world spun. Rachel guided me to the couch, the same one Danny had helped me move months ago, joking about how his CrossFit obsession finally paid off. Now he was gone.
“How did he die?” I whispered.
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