The clip ended, leaving the office in silence before the detectives finally let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.

  "That was intense," Evelyn exhaled.

  "Yeah, but mostly useless," Eric said, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "We already knew David was near the crime scene. We already knew he had a motive. This fight? Just cinema."

  He turned to the analyst. "You're absolutely sure no one left that sedan?"

  "Positive. It stuck to the main road, like—"

  "Like they wanted us to see it," Evelyn finished, her voice sharp. She stood and paced around the desk. "Ryan’s body was covered in bruises—that wasn’t from this fight," she said, locking eyes with Eric. "You remember when we interrogated David? His hands were wrapped in bandages. He cimed it was from this fight, yet—"

  She rewound the footage to where David trudged after the scarred man, pausing it.

  She pointed at the screen. "His hands are fine here."

  "I was going to say that," Eric leaned back, a smirk curling at his lips.

  "No doubt in my mind," Evelyn shot him a side gnce before her gaze drifted to the analyst, who was tapping his fingers on his p.

  "Thank you, you can leave," she said.

  The analyst nodded, gathered his equipment, and left, shutting the door with a soft click.

  Eric waited for the sound, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and pcing it between his lips. "We should bring him in. We have enough to make him crack if we push hard."

  Evelyn sipped her coffee, her eyes narrowing as she stared at the mug. "Goddammit! It got cold." She smmed it onto the desk with a loud thud, then gnced at Eric. "Yeah, I’ll call Thomas for a search warrant, too. His home, phone records, financials—anything that ties him to that sedan or—"

  Evelyn clicked her tongue as Eric patted his pockets, searching for a lighter. "You got a light, Eve?"

  She sighed, snatching the cigarette from his mouth. "Please don’t smoke in here." His smirk faded as he leaned back against his chair with a shrug.

  Meanwhile, in another chair—miles away—Johan sat at his desk, opening the drawer absentmindedly. His gaze was distant as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  "What are you pnning to do with that?" Martha asked as she flopped onto the sofa till it sagged under her powerful jump, sending the cushions bouncing.

  Johan blinked, then chuckled, tossing the pack back into the drawer. "Forgot you were there."

  "I get that a lot," she muttered, stretching her arms and letting out a dramatic sigh. "It’s my superpower. Invisibility."

  Johan smirked, pcing his elbows over the desk. "Let’s hope my clients have it too—maybe there’s an invisible queue outside."

  Martha ughed, the sound light and natural, a sign she was starting to heal. Johan watched her for a heartbeat, his chest easing. Shaking the thought away, he checked his phone, scrolling through to make sure he hadn’t missed a call.

  "Why’d you refuse that job earlier?" Martha asked, tilting her head. "You’ve got no clients. Was it that weird?"

  Johan clenched his jaw. His fingers tapped against the desk as the memory resurfaced.

  ".....my wife might be cheating on me I...."

  "Sorry, I can't do that."

  click.

  Sighing, he snapped out of it, rubbing his temples, and then he spoke in a weak, gentle voice.

  "Yeah, it was weird." Standing up, he stretched. "Should we go home?"

  "Okay," Martha said, hopping off the sofa to follow him.

  Johan locked the door behind them and walked toward the car parked a few meters ahead. The afternoon sun was blinding, beating down like the gates of hell had cracked open. They quickened their pace, and within seconds, they were inside.

  He turned the key in the ignition. Click, Click, Click, a noise drifted up from the engine—then it roared to life.

  Martha leaned against the window, watching as they crossed from Havencrest to Amber Heights—passing over the newly built bridge that separated the two districts.

  A crowd had gathered near the railing; their murmurs reached Johan and Martha's ears. They were looking down at something below, their hands either cmped over their mouths, rested over their heads, or over their phones, filming.

  Martha straightened, her pulse spiking. "Stop. Let’s see what’s going on."

  Johan barely spared a gnce. His grip on the wheel tightened, and he pressed the gas, speeding past.

  "There’s nothing to see there." His voice was firm.

  The rest of the drive passed in silence, except for the humming of the engine and the occasional soft thuds of Martha's head bumping into the window.

  When they pulled into the driveway, they noticed a bck car—a Chevrolet Impa, one that Johan knew very well.

  "Dad, have guests?" Martha asked, her brows furrowed.

  "Detectives," Johan blurted out, his expression darkened.

  Martha's breath hitched, her eyes trembling, Johan noticed and reached out, squeezing her hand. Then, with a quiet sigh, he led her toward the house.

  As they neared the entrance, the Impa’ door flung open.

  Eric and Evelyn stepped out.

  Figures. That cocky detective. Johan's lips twitched as he reached for the doorknob.

  "Wait," Eric called after him.

  But Johan acted like he hadn’t heard and gently nudged Martha inside, shutting the door behind them.

  Martha barely had time to process what was happening when she noticed a letter on the table.

  She picked it up, flipping it back and forth. "It says For Johan only. Did you give them our address?"

  "No." Johan raised an eyebrow, stretching out his hand. "Let me see."

  Johan unfolded the letter. His eyes skimmed the first line, and his breath caught.

  Hello Johan,

  I’m David. Before you read any further, please don’t feel responsible for any of this. You are a good person and I deeply hope you’ll be there for Martha whenever she needs you. I’ve called my sister, she’ll take care of her, so you won’t feel burdened.

  Johan's eyes widened, and his lips trembled, his fingers clenching around the paper.

  He could feel and sense what was coming in the next words, He let out a shaky breath, his gaze darting around the living room as if avoiding the paper—until it nded on Martha.

  She was watching him closely. Eyes narrowed, studying his facial expressions.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  The sudden banging on the door broke the tension, "Open up, we know you are in there."

  Knock. Knock.

  "Open the door, Martha," Johan said, his voice cracking.

  Martha bit her lower lip and shuffled toward the door.

  Johan reopened the letter, his fingers shaking as he traced the words for where he had stopped.

  "I remembered everything.

  I saw something in my room that shouldn’t be there.

  Something is wrong with me. I don’t know if it’s a split personality or just my mind breaking apart, but I don’t trust myself anymore.

  I woke up with memories that didn’t feel like mine.

  I don’t want to endanger my daughter’s life.

  I hope God forgives me for escaping justice.

  I'll be resting down at the new bridge. The murder weap—"

  The st few words were smeared, trails of tears erasing the ink.

  Johan swallowed hard. His vision blurred. His fingers clenched the paper, crushing it.

  Back on the bridge…The crowd looking down…David was there. Dead.

  His gaze flicked toward the detectives standing near the door. They hadn’t spoken, but their silence said everything. They saw it on his face.

  Johan trudged toward them as if carrying a weight that far exceeded his strength.

  "You need this."

  He said, his voice came out hoarse as he handed the letter to Evelyn.

  She took it, instantly skimming through the words.

  Johan turned to Martha. "Let's go for a walk."

  "No." Martha snapped, gring up, her fists clenched at her sides. "What is in the letter?"

  "I'll tell you outside," he said with a faint smile and stepped out.

  Tears streamed down Martha's face; she had already pieced things together, all she needed was confirmation.

  She followed after Johan.

  Behind them, Evelyn lowered the letter and then called out before they could reach the car.

  "Don’t drive, Johan."

  Johan raised his thumb in response as they walked past it.

  She then handed the letter to Eric.

  Unlike Johan, Evelyn felt nothing.

  To her, it was just another suspect confessing or, if she wished to be bold, confirmed to be a killer.

  Once Eric was done reading, they rushed upstairs to David's room.

  Stepping inside, their eyes nded on a jar near a ptop; a screen was on with a video pying on a loop, the sound was muted,

  Evelyn approached, turning the volume up, and they watched the short clip: it revealed a conversation in the middle of the night between Johan and Martha.

  “I think my dad is… the killer.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I think my dad is… the kil...

  Evelyn and Eric exchanged gnces, their jaws tightening.

  Then Eric muted the volume back and grabbed the yellow jar.

  A small piece of paper was tapped on the front.

  Eric squinted while Evelyn leaned over his shoulder to read:

  CHEATERS SHOULDN’T HAVE HEARTS.

  IT IS UP TO US TO FULFILL THAT.

  Their eyes widened as they once again gnced at each other.

  Evelyn swallowed hard. She could feel her stomach twisting, but her gaze remained fixed on the jar as Eric carefully peeled off the lid.

  A wet pop echoed as the lid came off, followed by a sharp hiss of trapped air.

  Then, the smell hit them—The stench of rotting flesh and stale blood mingled with something chemical.

  Evelyn stumbled back. "Shit!" She covered her nose with her sleeve, forcing herself to look.

  Eric, on the other hand, winced, breathing through his mouth as he, too, pushed himself to look.

  Their fingers trembled as they peeked inside.

  Floating in a murky liquid was a swollen—dark purple heart.