I look back into the immaculate, sterile white room.
Why would heavily-pregnant Becca, who left expensive clothes, furniture, and personal items strewn frantically across every other room in this sprawling home, spend hours on her knees scrubbing a single bathroom with industrial chemical bleach until the grout was stripped raw?
If she was packing to flee Knox’s debt and the fallout of his death, every minute mattered. She wouldn't waste precious time cleaning unless she was desperate to hide something. Something terrible.
“Willow is right,” I say softly. “It doesn't matter if there’s no blood on the floor. Something terrible happened in this room. Something we aren't meant to understand, and something I have no desire to investigate.”
Willow pulls away from my arm, taking a step back
