My breath went shallow as I stared at the dark, silent foyer, the physical structure of my family’s safety splintering before my eyes.
The large piece of white pine from the door frame lay flat on the polished entryway floor, its jagged edges catching the light.
Officer Boyd went in first, her black boots crunching over the fragments of pine that littered the rug.
Stay where you are for a moment, she said.
The female officer kept one hand near her utility belt as she cleared the entry. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the open door behind us.
I stood on the threshold, my fingers wrapping around my silver wedding ring. I twisted it twice, the cold metal scraping against my knuckle.
The air inside the house felt thick, carrying the faint, chemical scent of fresh floor wax. It was a smell I associated with school corridors at the end of summer, not my mother-in-law’s clean home.
