Cullen's knees hit the floor. Not slowly. Not with the careful control of a man lowering himself to pray. He went down like someone had cut the strings holding him upright.
I watched it happen from where Officer Reyes held me. Watched his face go slack. Watched his mouth open. No sound came out at first. Then a noise started deep in his chest—raw and animal and wrong.
Melody caught him.
She was there before he finished falling. Her arms around his shoulders. Her face pressed against his neck. She made a sound—high and broken—and pulled him against her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"No," she gasped. "No no no no no."
Cullen's hands gripped her back. He buried his face in her shoulder. His whole body shook.
I stared at them. At the way they held each other. At the way Melody's fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. At the way Cullen's weight sagged into her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.
I was ten feet away.
Officer Reyes's hands were on my shoulders. Steadying me. Keeping me upright. But Cullen didn't reach for me. Didn't look at me. He held Melody and broke apart in her arms while our son's body lay on the laundry room floor behind us.
Something inside my chest went cold and still.
Melody lifted her head. Her face was wet. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked at the officers standing in the hallway—three of them now, radios crackling, faces grim.
"I don't understand," she whispered. Her voice shook. "How did this happen?"
One of the officers—a woman with short gray hair and sergeant stripes—stepped forward. "We're going to need to ask everyone some questions."
Melody nodded. She kept one arm around Cullen. Kept him close. "Of course. Anything." She paused. Looked at me. Her eyes were so sad. So full of something that looked like pity. "Lexi was alone with the children tonight. She's been... unwell. Feverish. Saying strange things."
The sergeant's gaze shifted to me.
"She was acting violently," Melody continued. Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she didn't want to say it but had no choice. "Earlier. With Camden. She was screaming at him. I had to intervene."
Cullen's head lifted. He looked at the sergeant. His face was destroyed. Hollow. But when he spoke, his voice was steady. Certain.
"My wife has been mentally unwell," he said. "For weeks. Maybe longer. I didn't see it. I should have seen it." His voice cracked. "She was alone with the children tonight. I don't know what she's capable of."
The words landed in the hallway like stones dropping into still water.
Officer Reyes's hands tightened on my shoulders.
I heard what Cullen said. Heard every word. Watched his mouth form them. Watched him look at the police—at the sergeant with her notepad, at the male officer by the laundry room door, at the paramedics still crouched over Oakley's small body—and tell them I might have killed our son.
I stopped crying.
The tears just stopped. My face went still. The shaking in my hands stopped. The fever still burned behind my eyes but everything else went quiet and cold and clear.
I looked at Cullen across the hallway. At the man I had loved. The man I had built a life with. The man who was holding another woman while our child lay dead ten feet away. The man who had just told the police I was a murderer.
I saw him.
For the first time in years—maybe for the first time ever—I saw exactly who he was.
My fingertips pressed against my collarbone. Held there. Then I lowered my hand.
I didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say.
The sergeant was talking. Asking questions. Melody answered in her soft, broken voice. Cullen nodded. Confirmed. Elaborated. They were building something together. A story. A version of tonight that made sense. That had a villain and victims and a terrible, tragic accident caused by a woman who had lost her mind.
I stood there and watched them do it.
"Mrs. Turner?" Officer Reyes's voice was gentle. "Can you hear me?"
I nodded.
"We're going to need to take you to the hospital. Get you checked out. And then we'll need to ask you some questions. Do you understand?"
I nodded again.
Somewhere down the hall, I heard a small voice. Sevyn's voice.
"Can someone call my Uncle Beckett?"
I turned my head. Sevyn stood in the doorway to the living room. An officer crouched beside her—young, female, with kind eyes. Sevyn held one of Oakley's shoes. A small blue sneaker. She clutched it against her chest with both hands.
"Who's Beckett, sweetheart?" the officer asked.
Sevyn's voice was steady. Calm. Too calm for a child. "My uncle. Beckett Porter. He'll come get us."
The officer looked up at the sergeant. The sergeant nodded.
Sevyn's eyes found mine across the hallway. She didn't cry. Didn't speak. She just looked at me and held her brother's shoe and waited.
I wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her. Wanted to tell her it would be okay.
But Officer Reyes's hands were still on my shoulders. And Cullen was still on the floor with Melody. And Oakley was still in the laundry room.
And nothing would ever be okay again.
