Ethan sat in the cramped waiting room that the police had taken over. The bouquet lay discarded somewhere along the way. Two officers faced him, notebooks ready. “Start from the beginning,” one said. His jaw clenched. They should be out there, finding her—not prying into every second of the morning from him.
“I already told you,” he shouted. “She was in bed. I went for flowers. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. When I came back—nothing.” The younger officer’s pen scratched the paper deliberately, unhurried. Outside, a radio crackled, and Ethan thought of precious minutes slipping away.