Broken Trust by Laura Rise

Author:Laura Rise [Rise, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Laura Rise
Published: 2024-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The gravel crunched under the tires of their unmarked car, a staccato prelude to the task ahead. Ivy's fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel as she guided the vehicle along the tree-lined road. They were en route to deliver the sort of news that carved hollows in the soul.

"Brian's a dead-end," Sean muttered from the passenger seat, his voice a low growl of frustration. "We're back to square one."

"Square one with another body on our hands," Ivy replied, her voice taut with the strain of recent events. The image of Hannah Little, lifeless and cold, was etched into her memory, a haunting mirror of her sister’s unsolved case. The tightness in her chest hadn't eased since they'd left the precinct.

They arrived at their destination, the Little residence, bathed in the dying embers of daylight. Ivy killed the engine, and they sat for a moment, bracing themselves. She glanced at Sean, his jaw set in grim determination, mirroring her own resolve. Together, they stepped out into the chill of the evening.

The walk to the front door felt like a march towards an inevitable abyss. Ivy's hand hesitated before knocking, the weight of their news pressing down upon her. She knew loss intimately, could taste its bitter flavor, and now she was the bearer of it. She knocked, a sound too loud in the stillness.

The door swung open, revealing a cozy foyer that spoke of a life both ordinary and cherished. A woman stood there, her smile faltering as she registered their somber expressions. "Detectives?" she asked, a tremor of concern in her voice.

"May we come in, Mrs. Little?" Ivy's words were gentle but carried the gravity of their purpose.

As they crossed the threshold, the home's warmth enveloped them, yet felt undeserved. It was a scrapbook of happiness displayed in frames—Hannah's smile beaming from every corner, her eyes alight with joy in each photograph. But their presence, the aura of officiality that clung to their badges and holsters, seemed to leech the color from the room.

"Is Hannah alright?" The question came laced with a fear that already knew the answer. “We… we haven’t heard from her in a few days. She usually calls often.”

Ivy met Mrs. Little's gaze, her own blue eyes a firmament of stoic sorrow. She had worn this mask before, had become adept at navigating the treacherous waters of grief. She understood the language of loss, its silent screams and its quiet surrender.

"Please, have a seat," Ivy said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They moved to the living room, where the air hung heavy, pregnant with unspoken dread.

Ivy's hand trembled faintly as she reached forward, the air around her tightening like a vice. "Mr. and Mrs. Little," she began, her voice a whisper against the storm of emotions threatening to break free from within, "there's been an incident." Her words fell like stones into the stillness of the room, each syllable weighted with the gravity of irreversible loss.

The Littles sat motionless, hands clasped tightly together as if to anchor themselves against the coming tide.

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