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As I drove down the streets of Cape Canaveral, the blazing midday sun beat down on my car. A knot formed in my stomach as I approached the scene—a feeling that something was not right. As I held up my badge to the uniformed officer stationed at the entrance, I couldn”t help but notice how heavy it felt in my hand. It almost seemed to symbolize the weight of the truth that I knew awaited me inside. The officer”s face remained stoic and emotionless as he allowed me to pass through.

”Detective Ryan,” I called out as I ducked under the yellow tape, my shoes crunching on the gravel drive.

He turned, his eyes narrowing, not with suspicion but irritation. ”What are you doing here? This isn”t your case.”

I could feel the impatience rolling off Detective Ryan in waves, but urgency threaded my words tight. ”I”ve got new information. You need to hear me out.”

”Listen,” he said, crossing his arms, a clear barrier going up, ”it”s simple. A woman was shot. Looks like suicide. I suspect no foul play. The husband came home and found her. The gun was still in her hand.”

”Simple?” My voice rose slightly, incredulously. ”Her husband finds her with the gun still in her grip, and that”s where the story ends for you?”

”Those are the facts,” Ryan replied, unyielding.

”Except for the fact this happened right next door to another shooting that happened only days ago.” My disbelief hung between us, a tangible thing. This guy was really getting on my nerves.

”Coincidence,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

”Really? Because I don”t believe in coincidences.” My eyes met his, trying to ignite in him the same spark of curiosity, of doubt. ”Let me have a look.”

He sighed and shrugged. ”Suit yourself,” he muttered, gesturing toward the house.

As I moved past him, the crime scene came into focus—all sterile precision and hushed tones over the dull roar of the air conditioning. The forensics team worked methodically in the living room, documenting every detail of the grim tableau.

”Show me,” I instructed, and they pointed to the body”s position.

”Shot here,” one of them indicated, motioning toward the bottom of the stairs, ”straight through the head.”

”Just like Steven Chapman.”

I absorbed the scene, the room”s stillness at odds with the chaos of death. Then, something out of place caught my eye. ”And what”s over there?” I asked, nodding toward a suitcase lying haphazardly on the floor.

”Found it just like that,” one of the techs answered without looking up from their work.

I turned back to Ryan, who had followed me in. His skepticism was a physical presence in the room.

”Who packs a suitcase right before committing suicide?” I challenged.

Detective Ryan didn”t answer, but the tightening of his jaw told me he was finally listening.

His eyes flickered from the suitcase to the floor, where the body had been before it was taken in, and I could see the gears in his mind turning. Yet he wouldn’t admit it, even though it was staring him straight in the face. He was too stubborn.

”Can I at least talk to the husband?” I asked, leading the way out of the crime scene.