The doorbell rang at 11:47 PM on a freezing Tuesday, cutting through the quiet like a warning. Nobody comes at that hour with good news. My chest tightened with dread.
Through the peephole, I saw my sister, Rachel, shifting nervously on the porch. Behind her stood a man in a wrinkled suit—dark circles under his eyes, the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying bad news every day.
I opened the door. Rachel’s cheeks were streaked with tears. The man held a manila folder like it carried the weight of a world ending.
“Melissa,” Rachel whispered, voice cracking, “this is Detective Morrison.”
He stepped forward. “Mrs. Patterson, we have information about your brother.”
I felt my stomach drop. “Is he… alive?”
He said nothing. Silence answered for him. “We found your brother’s body this afternoon. I’m very sorry.”
The world spun. Rachel guided me to the couch—the same one Danny had helped me move months earlier. He’d joked about finally putting all that CrossFit strength to use. Now he was gone.
“How did he die?” I whispered.
“Exposure,” Detective Morrison said. “But there are circumstances you need to know.”
My hands shook as he laid photos on the coffee table. Danny had been missing for three weeks. We had hoped for a miracle. Now there was only this.
“Your brother was found near a cabin owned by Marcus Webb. Do you know him?”
Of course I did. Marcus—Danny’s best friend, business partner, and, until betrayal, like family. Marcus stole from him, lost a civil trial, and then stared at Danny across the courtroom, venom in his eyes: “You’ve destroyed my life.”
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