Chapter 4 - The Crimson Hem
The kitchen lights seemed to hum louder, the white glare exposing every microscopic detail of the horror unfolding in the room. Elena stared down at the hem of the baby’s swaddle, her breath hitching in her throat. The smudge of crimson grease was still damp, glistening faintly against the soft pastel fabric. It wasn't blood; it was machine oil, dyed red—the kind used for industrial machinery or high-performance automobile engines.
"Elena?" Julian whispered, noticing the sudden rigidity in her posture. "What is it?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes darted from the blanket to Julian’s shoes, then to the floor beneath the counter where he had stood moments ago. There was no grease there. But beneath Beatrice’s pristine burgundy hem, near the heel of her designer pumps, lay a faint, nearly imperceptible smudge of identical crimson oil.
"Detective Vance," Beatrice spoke before Elena could utter a word, her tone commanding the attention of every person in the room. "You mentioned the car was registered to this house. You also know that Julian has had full access to the garage keys all afternoon."
"Mother, stop!" Julian shouted, moving forward, but Vance’s two officers immediately raised their hands, warning him to hold his ground. "I was at the hospital! The staff can verify my presence! I carried my son out of the maternity ward an hour ago!"
"Did you?" Beatrice sighed, a sound laden with theatrical sorrow. "Or did you leave the ward thirty minutes early, Julian? You were so agitated about the rumors. So terrified that your father's past would catch up to you."
"What lies are you telling them?" Julian screamed, his composure shattering completely. "Marcus, look at her! Look at her shoes! She was near the car! She knows who was driving!"
Vance looked troubled. He glanced down at Beatrice’s shoes, but the older woman subtly shifted her weight, concealing the mark beneath the heavy drape of her skirt.
"Julian, we need you to come down to the station," Vance said quietly. "We have surveillance footage from the toll booth near the mountain pass. The driver was wearing an open-collar white shirt. Just like yours."
Julian looked down at his chest. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, exactly as Vance described. But thousands of men wore white shirts. It was absurd. It was impossible.
"I didn't drive that car," Julian said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, steady register. "Elena was with me the entire time."
Vance turned his gaze toward Elena. "Mrs. Sterling? Can you confirm your husband was in your sight for the entirety of the last two hours?"
Elena looked up. Her eyes met Julian’s desperate, pleading gaze. Then, her eyes drifted toward Beatrice, who slightly raised one eyebrow—a silent, deadly warning. Elena's lips parted, but before she could speak, the newborn began to wail, a shrill, piercing cry that shattered the tension.
May you like
Elena pulled back the edge of the blanket to soothe the child, and as she did, a small, cold object slipped from the folds of the swaddle and clattered against the marble floor.
It was a silver ignition key, stamped with the logo of the car that had just killed a woman on the mountain road.
