Sgt. Miller’s hand went to his radio. He spoke quietly, and moments later, I saw the reflection of another patrol car turning onto our street from the north end.
The sedan stopped half a house away.
A man stepped out.
Logan.
He wore a jacket like he was going somewhere nice—a dinner date, perhaps. His hair was combed, his posture straight. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like the man I married. In his hand was a plastic grocery bag, swinging gently like he’d brought leftovers or a peace offering.
Megan made a strangled sound from the hallway. “Why does he look… normal?”
“Because he’s acting,” I said, watching him. “He wants witnesses to doubt us. He wants to look like the calm, rational husband visiting his hysterical wife and sister-in-law.”
Logan walked up to the porch. He didn’t pound on the door. He knocked once, polite. Rhythmic.
“Claire,” he called out. His voice was loud enough for the neighbors to hear, pitched perfectly to sound concerned. “Open up, honey. We need to talk.”
I didn’t move. I stood frozen in the shadows of the living room.
He knocked again. “Megan, come on. This is between me and my wife. Stop getting in the middle of it.”
