“Dad isn’t dead, he’s under the floor,” the little girl said, police started digging…

And did you renovate the kitchen floor recently? Martha paused slightly. I. I retiled the floor because there was mold. I did it myself.

You retiled it yourself? Mark asked, surprised. Yes, Martha replied quickly. I watch tutorials online.

Richard pulled out a USB drive. Your neighbor Mr. Ernest Morgan has a security camera. He provided footage showing you carrying Anna out of the house around 3 a.m. and returning alone with a bag of construction materials.

Care to explain? Martha bit her lip. I didn’t want Anna to breathe in the mold. I took her to a friend’s house.

As for the materials. I wanted to fix the house myself. Mark raised an eyebrow.

No receipt for the materials, no contractor, no official notice of repair. And the girl says her father is under the kitchen tiles. Quite the coincidence.

Martha clenched her fists, her voice rising. Are you accusing me of killing my husband? Mark replied calmly, we’re not accusing anyone. We’re asking questions.

And your answers don’t seem to line up. Martha suddenly turned to Richard. You’re an investigator, but do you know anything about an unhappy marriage? Do you know Julian used to hit me? Mark cut in.

Do you have any proof? Medical records, hospital visits, police reports. Martha was silent for a few seconds, then exhaled sharply. I didn’t go to the hospital.

I endured it. Richard tilted his head slightly toward Mark and whispered, we need an emergency search warrant. The cement smell is still fresh.

And her tone. Mark nodded. Start the paperwork.

I want forensics there first thing in the morning. The next morning, officers arrived at the small house at the end of Maplewood Street. The lead forensic officer, Lisa Parker a cold but seasoned professional knelt down and sniffed the newly laid tiles.

Cement still smells fresh. Not fully dry. There’s something underneath, she said, then turned to another technician.

Start drilling at the color discrepant area. Martha was held in the living room, watched by two officers. Anna wasn’t present Francis had taken her to her grandmother’s as Mark had requested.

Lisa pointed. We’ll drill layer by layer. Start at the light colored tiles.

The whir of the drill echoed through the heavy air. About 30 minutes later, the first layer of tiles was removed. Beneath the gray mortar, a piece of dark fabric began to show.

Lisa stopped a technician. Slow down. Use your hands for the rest.

Wearing gloves, they gently cleared away the cement. A young officer gasped, Oh my God! A human foot emerged pale blue and stiff. Mark stepped forward, silent for a few moments, then turned to Martha.

Anything you’d like to say? Martha didn’t answer. She turned her face away. Lisa’s voice was heavy.

Male body, fully wrapped in fabric. Dry blood on the head. Blunt force trauma.

Richard snapped photos of the scene, then crouched to pick up a small shattered object next to the body. It’s a phone. Cracked, but we might recover data.

Mark narrowed his eyes. Do it. Send it to tech.

Another officer ran outside and vomited. Lisa didn’t comment. Not everyone’s built for death, she said.

Mark looked at the body eyes still open, fists clenched as if he’d struggled. He turned and glanced at the silent house, the curtains swaying in the light breeze. This isn’t a disappearance.

Not an accident. This is a premeditated murder. He turned to Richard.

Arrest Martha Grant. Hold her under Section 142 Suspected Murder and Body Disposal. Richard stepped forward and read her rights.

Mrs. Martha Grant, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent. Silent? Martha scoffed bitterly.

Do you know how many years I’ve lived in silence? Mark replied plainly, well, no one needs silence anymore. The clink of handcuffs echoed through the cement-dusted room. Martha didn’t resist.

She only glanced at the tiles now removed where her husband’s body had just been uncovered her gaze hollow, as if she had nothing left to hold on to. On the transport back to the detention center, Richard glanced in the rearview mirror. Martha sat motionless, like a statue.

He thought to himself, some commit crimes in a fit of rage, but others like Martha seemed to have orchestrated a full-blown tragedy. Back at the station, Mark called for an emergency meeting. Present were the forensics team, data recovery techs, and Prosecutor Rose Martin a sharp woman with eyes like blades.

Lisa Parker spoke first. The victim Julian Grant died of blunt force trauma to the skull from behind. No signs of defensive wounds.

No blood at the burial site, indicating the body was moved before being buried. Mark nodded. This was clearly premeditated murder.

Rose folded her hands. But for a solid prosecution, we need all the puzzle pieces. Motive, timeline, physical evidence.

The girl Anna is key. But a child’s words aren’t enough. We need more.

A young tech officer, Stephen Harris, stood and presented, were recovering data from the broken phone. Most of the memory is gone, but a few texts survived before it powered off. He projected them on the screen…