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The shrill whistle pierced the air, and I glanced up from my laptop just in time to see Alex dart onto the field. The crowd”s roar was a distant hum against my focused thoughts. He caught my eye and waved energetically, his face lit with the innocent pride of youth. I managed a smile and returned the gesture, but his moment was already slipping through my fingers as I sank back into the world of crime scene photos.

”Go, Alex!” I heard someone shout, and it might”ve been me in another life—one not entwined with murder and secrets.

Beside me, Angel had befriended a girl her size, their laughter mingling with the cheers. They played, oblivious to the weight of the world, creating their own out of sticks and sunshine on the sidelines.

With a sigh, I reopened the digital file, the glow of my computer screen painting cold light on solemn faces watching the game. Steven Chapman lay there, static and pale, eternally asleep on silken sheets. But something nagged at me—a gut feeling that screamed everything was wrong.

”Mom! Did you see? I scored!”

Alex”s voice snapped me back to reality, but it was too late. The goal was a ghost; all I could do was wave, catching the tail end of his triumph. His eyes rolled theatrically before he jogged off, again absorbed by the game.

I couldn”t shake the unease, so I grabbed my phone and dialed Detective Ryan. The ringtone was brief, an intrusion on his weekend calm.

”She couldn”t have shot him,” I blurted the moment he answered.

”Happy Saturday to you, too,” Ryan”s voice came through, tinged with resignation. In the background, splashes and giggles painted a vivid picture of his family day at the pool.

”Detective, it”s about the positioning,” I insisted, flicking back to the photo where Chapman lay too perfectly arranged. ”That”s not what a body looks like when it has just been shot.”

”Okay, and?” There was the sound of water being displaced, a child”s squeal.

”His legs, arms—all too straight. And the blood splatter, it doesn”t match the angle.” I swallowed, feeling the tension grip my throat.

”Maybe she moved him,” he offered with an exasperated exhale.

”But the magazine, Ryan. It was under the bed, not in the gun.” My finger hovered over the incriminating image, the magazine lying inert on the carpet, a puzzle piece fallen far from the board.

”Accidents happen. Maybe she dropped it.” I could almost hear him rubbing the bridge of his nose.

”Or maybe someone else was there. Because how did it end up so far away? She couldn”t have kicked it—not from where she was standing.” I pressed, hoping he”d see reason.

”Look, I”m with my family. What do you want from me?” His patience was fraying at the edges.

”Consider the time. A passerby heard the gunshot at 10:45 pm, but the neighbors didn”t see Sarah entering the house until 11:10 pm. How does that work, Detective?” I pushed, my voice steady despite the doubt creeping in.

”Times can be mistaken,” he countered, but his tone lacked conviction.

”Or perhaps the killer is still out there, getting away with murder while we”re talking.” My words hung between us, heavy with implication.

Ryan”s frustration echoed through the line, a tangible thing even amidst the din of playful shouts and splashing water.

”What”s your point?”

”My point,” I said, closing the files with a decisive click, ”is that we”re chasing shadows while the real murderer walks free.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” he said, then hung up. I stared at the phone, then lifted my gaze just in time to see Alex score again. I rose to my feet and clapped eagerly, making sure he noticed that I saw this one.