And just like that, the place where my son should have slept became a crime scene. To understand what happened that night, you have to understand Margaret. From the moment Daniel introduced us, she didn’t dislike me.
She evaluated me. Every conversation felt like an inspection disguised as politeness. “Your family has a history of depression, doesn’t it?” she once asked, sipping tea from delicate china.
“And your father passed young. Heart problems, yes?”
“He was fifty,” I said carefully. She hummed.
“Weak stock. Daniel’s family survives. We protect the bloodline.”
I told myself she was eccentric.
Old-fashioned. Daniel always brushed it off. “That’s just Mom,” he said.
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