Lines of Defense

Ch. 15

AMELIA HART

The flashing red and blue lights greet me before I even turn the corner, cutting through the night like a warning. As I pull up to the scene, the low wail of an ambulance and the murmur of voices fill the air. Police tape surrounds a small, modest house, its front yard crawling with officers, EMTs, and onlookers trying to catch a glimpse of the latest horror to stain the neighborhood. The atmosphere is heavy with the scent of wet grass and blood.

I step out of the car, my stomach churning as a gurney is wheeled out from the house, a white sheet draped over the body. The moment hangs, almost suffocating, but something—some horrible instinct—drives me forward. Before I can stop myself, I rush toward the gurney and yank the sheet back.

Mrs. Peterson.

Her lifeless face stares back at me, eyes wide open, frozen in some silent scream. The jagged red line slashed across her throat is all I can focus on, a gruesome signature of whoever did this. My breath catches in my throat, and I force myself to step back, the world around me dimming for just a second before I pull it together. I quickly cover her back up, feeling the bile rising but swallowing it down.

Jane's voice cuts through the haze, and I spot her standing near one of the officers, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. I make my way over, hoping for answers that might make sense of this nightmare.

"What happened?" I ask. My question comes out as unsteady despite my best efforts. I want to sound strong, but seeing Mrs. Peterson like that has rattled me more than I care to admit.

Jane lets out a deep breath, her expression grim. "Neighbor called it in. Said they saw her dragging herself out of the house, a knife wound to the throat. She couldn't make it. By the time the ambulance arrived, she'd lost too much blood."

I stare at her, my mind racing to catch up. "She tried to get help?"

Jane nods. "The neighbor said she was trying to speak, but blood kept pouring from her mouth. There was no saving her."

The image Jane paints is gruesome, tragic—Mrs. Peterson, a woman trying to survive, only to bleed out on her own doorstep. A chill runs through me. Who could've done this?

"Who killed her?" I murmur, more to myself than to Jane, but Jane's sharp eyes catch mine, her expression unreadable.

"Could it be Freeman?" I ask, the thought tumbling out before I can stop it. My mind is racing, jumping to every possibility, every thread I can pull to make sense of this.

Jane's face tightens, and she studies me for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "I knew you were thinking that," she says, as if the suggestion alone is too dangerous to say aloud. "I've been thinking it too. But... it doesn't make sense. Freeman wouldn't have known about Mrs. Peterson's report. No one told him she came forward."

"Except he did know," I say firmly. "When I met him, he mentioned it. He knew Mrs. Peterson came by the station. He knew she made a report."

Jane's eyes narrow. "How? How could he possibly know?"

I shake my head, trying to piece it together. "He said he never cheated on Stacie. Claimed she had a mental illness, that she saw things that weren't there. But how would he even bring that up unless he knew about the report?"

Jane goes quiet, her brow furrowed as she processes what I've just told her. After a long pause, she finally speaks. "That changes things. But we can't accuse him outright, not yet. We need to confirm if what he said about Stacie's mental state is true. Her sister would know, right? She'd have the details."

I nod slowly, the pieces clicking into place. "Yeah. I'll meet with her."

Jane places a hand on my shoulder, her eyes full of unspoken concern. "We're onto something here, Amelia. But if Freeman's involved, we're treading on dangerous ground. Be careful."