Chapter 1
My husband, David Carter, was a decorated police captain, the kind they wrote feel-good news features about.
We'd been married for three years. Tonight, a stalker pried open my front door.
I barricaded myself in the bedroom, my hands trembling so hard I could barely tap the screen. I called David. "He's inside the house," I whispered, my voice shaking. "He's right outside the door. David, please, get home now!"
The line was filled with static and background noise. David's voice was sharp with impatience. "I'm on a call, Emily. Just lock the damn door."
Then, a young, fluttering female voice cut in. "Officer Carter? My cat, she's stuck in the tree. I don't know what to do."
Instantly, David's tone changed, softening into something warm and reassuring. "Don't you worry, April. I'll be right there."
Click. He was gone.
The bedroom door shuddered and then splintered open with a sickening crack. Standing in the doorway was the stalker, his face twisted into a horrifying grin.
Silence.
I stared at the man lying on the floor, my chest heaving.
I don't know how long it was before I heard rapid footsteps in the hallway.
David had finally arrived.
He kicked open the already broken door and took in the wrecked room and the unconscious man whose name was Mark Lewis.
He rushed over, grabbing my shoulders, checking me over. "Are you okay?"
I shook my head.
He let out a sigh of relief, then his brow furrowed. "Look at this mess. Couldn't you have been more careful?"
It felt like a punch to the chest, the pain heavy and suffocating.
I looked at him calmly, took out my phone, and hit play.
It was the recording of our earlier call.
The recording ended.
I turned off my phone and looked at him.
David's face turned ashen. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Right then, his phone rang again, sharp and insistent.
He fumbled to answer it.
April White's tearful voice came through the speaker. "David, I'm so scared. When are you coming back?"
David froze. He glanced at me, then turned away. "I'll be right there."
He stormed out.
His tall figure disappeared through the doorway without a second glance.
I stood alone in my shattered home, listening to the police sirens growing louder outside.
*****
The police station was brightly lit.
The officer taking my statement was very young.
He wrote notes while glancing at me from the corner of his eye, a hint of disdain in his look.
"Name?" he snapped.
"Emily Brooks."
"Relationship to Officer David Carter?"
"His wife."
His pen paused. He looked up at me.
At the next desk, two officers were whispering.
"Hear about this? Captain Carter hung up on his wife's distress call to rescue a cat," one of them spoke in a low voice.
"Seriously? Whose cat?" the other officer asked.
"April's. Who else could it be? Captain Carter treats that girl like she's made of glass."
"Tch. Even heroes have weaknesses. Tough break for the wife, though. Heard her door got pried open. She almost got hurt."
The young officer cleared his throat, cutting them off.
He looked at me, all business. "Describe the suspect's appearance in detail."
I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene.
I described Mark's height, build, and the scar on his face in detail.
Finally, I paused and added," I remember now. A few months ago, when David received that 'City's Outstanding Young Guardian' award, I saw this man outside the party hall. He was standing across the street, staring right at David."
The young officer stopped writing. He finally looked me in the eye.
I left the station late at night.
I went home alone to the trashed house.
Broken glass littered the living room floor, and the bedroom door hung crookedly.
I knelt down and started picking up the glass shards, piece by piece.
A sharp edge sliced my finger. Blood welled up.
I looked at the cut, got the first aid kit, cleaned and bandaged it myself.
After that, I pulled a few tiny micro-cameras, smaller than a fingernail, from deep in a closet.
I installed them in the living room chandelier, between the books on the study shelf, and in the bedroom vent.
These were the blind spots in our home.
And the blind spots in his heart.
David came home at 3 AM.
He smelled faintly of alcohol and an unfamiliar perfume.
He saw the bandage on my hand.
His Adam's apple bobbed. He seemed to want to say something.
In the end, he just threw his jacket on the couch and said stiffly, "You're an adult. Can't you even take care of yourself?"
I started investigating Mark.
His social media was a blank slate. Public information was scarce.
But I remembered the name he kept muttering when the police took him away. "John... My brother John was framed."
I searched the name online.
Soon, a five-year-old news article popped up.
"Downtown Jewelry Store Robbery Solved, Hero Detective David Carter Nabs Culprit."
The article portrayed David as the rising star of the police force.
The suspect he arrested was named John.
John was imprisoned for robbery and died of illness in prison three years ago.
The report made David look perfect, but I noticed a detail.
It mentioned that during his arrest, John insisted he had an alibi, but the sole key witness recanted.
I closed the browser.