Kayla’s scream split the morning open like glass, a sound so wrong it didn’t belong in our quiet, coffee-scented house. By the time I reached the bedroom, prom shoes waited neatly under plastic-wrapped satin, but my daughter’s golden hair lay in soft, ruined drifts across the carpet. Reese’s unicorn pajamas. My husband’s razor on the nightstand. An eight-year-old’s flat voice saying, “I saved her.” And then Steven’s keycode beeped at the front door, his familiar footsteps climbing toward our bathr… Continues…
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