Lines of Defense

Ch. 5

AMELIA HART

I step out of the car and pull my coat tighter around me, the early morning chill creeping through the air despite the sun just beginning to warm the sky. Beside me, Detective Jane is already surveying the scene as we approach the towering, modern villa. It's the kind of place that screams wealth—pristine white walls, manicured hedges lining the walkway, and large windows gleaming like polished mirrors. From the outside, it looks perfect. It's the type of perfection that makes my skin crawl.

We reach the front gate, and I take in the sight of CCTV cameras placed at every corner—strategically. Each one positioned to cover the entire property, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed. Except, of course, the murder. No camera can prevent that.

"Someone's watched every move in this place," Jane mutters, eyeing the cameras with the same suspicion I feel.

"Let's hope they caught something useful," I respond, though I doubt it. Whoever planned this knew those cameras were here.

As we walk through the front yard, the officers on duty spot us. One steps forward, already lifting a hand to block our path.

"Sorry, ma'am. This is a crime scene. You'll have to—"

I flash my ID, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Amelia Hart, Assistant District Attorney. This is Detective Jane Russo. We're here to observe the crime scene."

The officer studies my ID for a moment, nods, and motions for us to pass. "Go ahead. Forensics are still working inside, so watch your step."

We make our way up the steps and into the villa. The moment I step inside, the smell of antiseptic mixed with something heavier—something metallic and damp—hits my nose. Blood. Despite the polished marble floors, the grand staircase, and the expensive artwork on the walls, there's an undercurrent of unease that pulses through this place now. A crime this brutal leaves a stain, no matter how perfect everything else appears.

"Everything looks pristine," Jane remarks, her eyes roaming over the high ceilings, the gleaming surfaces. "But we both know how that story goes."

I nod, but I'm not really listening. My focus is already moving ahead, to the room where they found Stacie Freeman's body.

We pass through the living room—a stunning space filled with sleek furniture, more windows, and enough artwork to fill a small museum. It's meticulously designed to impress, but none of it matters now. The moment we reach the stairs leading to the master bedroom, I feel a shift. The air thickens. Every step brings us closer to the reality behind the headlines: the wife of a billionaire, found dead in her own home.

The police and forensic team are everywhere, talking in hushed voices as they gather evidence. One officer gives us a nod, acknowledging our presence, but they keep to their work. No one likes to linger too long in the room where someone died.

The master bedroom is another testament to wealth and power—soft carpets, a king-sized bed with silk sheets, everything perfectly in place, like no one's even lived here. But it's the bathroom that tells the real story.

I step in and immediately notice the blood. It's dried now, dark stains smeared across the tiled floor, a grotesque contrast against the stark white walls. The bathtub is half-filled with water, streaked with more blood, and there's a section of the floor marked off with tape where Stacie's body was found. I can picture it too easily, her lifeless form slumped in the corner, a shell of a woman who probably had everything but never enough.

Jane lets out a low whistle beside me, surveying the scene. "So much for a peaceful life in the lap of luxury."

I nod, my stomach twisting. "We need to figure out what really happened here. Because the defense is going to paint this as something else entirely."