Chapter 4 - The Crime Scene

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The detective’s face was grim when he visited my room the next morning.

Detective Vance was a seasoned veteran, a man whose graying hair suggested he had seen the darkest corners of human nature. Yet, as he pulled up a chair beside my bed, he looked visibly shaken.

"We executed the search warrant at your residence at dawn, Mrs. Vance," he began, his voice gravelly and low. "Forensics swept the utility room."

"Did you find it?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The beam... the rope?"

He nodded slowly. "We found the anchor point on the ceiling beam. There were stress marks on the wood. But..." He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "There was no rope. And the floor had been scrubbed with industrial bleach."

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. "He cleaned it? Before he called the ambulance, he took the time to scrub the floor?"

"Yes," Vance said. "He eradicated the biological evidence on the floor. However, he isn't as smart as he thinks he is. Forensics used Luminol. The chemical reaction lit the room up like a Christmas tree. There is enough residual evidence to prove a massive blood event occurred exactly beneath that beam."

"Will it be enough?" I asked, the familiar dread curling in my stomach. "His lawyers..."

"His lawyers are already spinning a narrative," Vance admitted. "They’re claiming you were attempting a risky home workout, an aerial yoga routine, and the equipment snapped. They are claiming the bleach was just routine cleaning you had done earlier that week."

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I felt violently ill. "He's going to get away with it."

"No," Vance leaned in, his eyes hard. "Because the autopsy of the fetus, combined with your physical bruising, is entirely inconsistent with a short fall. We have him, Rachel. But it is going to be an ugly fight."