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

A message thread between Julian and Martha appeared. Julian, Martha, I can’t do this anymore. I’m filing for divorce next week.

Martha, if you leave me, I’ll make you disappear. Julian, don’t be crazy. Think of Anna.

Martha, Anna will be fine. Without you, she and I will live better. The room fell silent.

Rose frowned. That’s enough to prove motive. Mark signaled to Richard.

Send the investigation team back to Martha’s house. Look for property papers, loan documents, anything that shows financial motivation. Two hours later, Richard returned with a box of documents.

He pulled out a stack. This is the property deed. Julian was the sole owner.

We found evidence Martha was trying to transfer ownership by claiming he was missing. He pulled out another bundle. These are loan receipts nearly $240,000 borrowed from Julian under the pretext of a small personal business investment.

No repayment made. Mark looked at Rose. Add financial motive to the threat, the scene.

That’s more than enough. Not done yet, Richard added. We discovered frequent private messages between Martha and a man named Samuel Brooks on social media.

Mark tapped the table. I want to speak with that man. That afternoon, Samuel Brooks a tall man with neatly combed hair and a dark shirt was brought into the interrogation room.

He looked nervous, eyes darting. How do you know Martha Grant? Rose asked directly. Samuel swallowed.

We met in an investment group. Talked online. Met a few times.

Were you romantically involved with her? Mark asked. Samuel hesitated. I… had feelings.

But nothing improper happened. She always said her husband was terrible, and she was tired of being controlled. Did she ever talk about hurting him? Richard asked.

Samuel took a deep breath. One time she said, I wish he would just disappear. But I thought it was just venting.

Rose repeated the words. Do you think Martha is impulsive? Samuel fell silent. No.

She’s… more calculated than I thought. Meanwhile, at the home of Carol Julian’s little Anna was sitting by the window, drawing. Carol placed a glass of milk beside her.

What are you drawing, sweetheart? she asked gently. Anna pointed at the paper, a human figure lying beneath a tiled floor, surrounded by stacked tiles. It’s daddy.

He’s under there. Carol gripped the edge of the table, her voice trembling. Who told you… about that? I heard it, Anna said, still focused on her drawing.

Mommy had a big pan. Daddy said don’t, and she hit him hard. Then daddy stopped talking.

Carol shuddered, trying to stay calm. And then what? Mommy said, don’t tell anyone. If you do, our family will fall apart.

Carol buried her face in her hands, tears flowing down her cheeks. In the interrogation room, Rose concluded, Martha didn’t just kill someone she staged a fake home repair, created a false alibi by removing the child, and coached the girl into silence. That makes this crime even more severe.

Mark nodded. I’ll recommend charges for premeditated murder, concealment of a body, and manipulating a minor into withholding testimony. She must face the full consequences.

Richard added, not just for Julian but for Anna. That child has been living in lies and violence since the age of four. Rose checked her watch.

Prepare for the preliminary hearing. I want every piece of evidence organized. And remember Anna’s words may not be admissible as formal testimony, but they are the emotional linchpin.

Mark stood up, his voice somber. We’re not just seeking justice for the dead. We’re trying to save a living soul one already scarred.

On the way back to Carol’s house, Francis asked softly, Do you think Anna really understands everything? Carol shook her head, her eyes red. She’s just a child. But the saddest thing is when a child understands too much and no one lets her speak.

Francis choked up. I’ve never seen a child so calm yet so full of pain. When Anna said, Daddy’s cold.

I got chills. Carol squeezed Francis’s hand. I’ll protect that child.

No matter what. That evening, Mark reviewed the case file. He opened a photo of Anna drawing by the window, her face unnaturally serious for her age.

He sighed. Some people bury a body after killing, he murmured, some bury their child’s entire childhood. He looked out the station window, the dim glow of night spilling over Maplewood Street.

Tomorrow, the case would officially move into prosecution. The cement had dried. But the blood would never disappear.

The next morning, under the biting cold sunlight of suburban Illinois, the forensic team and tactical police gathered around the house at 17 Maplewood Street. Once a quiet residence, the house was now surrounded by yellow tape, curious neighbors whispering behind curtains, and a line of service vehicles parked along the narrow street. Lisa Parker, the lead forensic investigator, adjusted her rubber gloves, her steely eyes scanning the kitchen floor.

She signaled two team members to begin drilling through the newly tiled area. Part of the floor had been examined the previous day, but this time, they would demolish the entire 40-cm-thick cement base at the exact location Anna had pointed out. The saw whined sharply.

Pale tiles shattered into shards. A harsh, acrid odor began to rise from beneath, thickening the air. Detective Richard Monroe wrinkled his nose, took a step back.

Decomposition smell, Lisa confirmed, her voice even, unflinching. Everyone step back. Hazmat team, move in.

Forensic tech Thomas Daniels slid a crowbar into the cement’s edge. Within ten minutes, damp earth started to appear beneath. Careful, Lisa warned.

We have signs of a buried object. Dig by hand. The scratching of small shovels echoed in the silence…