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

Layer by layer, fine dirt was lifted out. Sweat beaded down Thomas’s face, even though it was only about 65 degrees Fahrenheit inside the house. Suddenly, he froze, his hand trembling.

Something’s here. I touched fabric. Lisa immediately leaned down, shining her flashlight onto the soil.

Stop. Clear the surrounding dirt gently. Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

After nearly ten minutes of careful excavation, the edge of a large burlap sack appeared dark, crumpled, and blotched with deep red stains resembling dried blood. Richard stepped back, hand instinctively resting on his holstered gun, though he knew nothing alive remained beneath that earth. Get a fabric sample.

Open the bag, Lisa said, her voice low but firm. As the zipper was pulled open, a wave of putrid air burst out. Thomas turned and vomited violently into the kitchen corner.

Another officer clamped a hand over his mouth, face pale. Inside the bag, a man’s body lay curled tightly, forced into the narrow space. His head was soaked in dry blood, with a deep depression at the temple clear signs of a blunt object strike from behind.

Mark entered, stopping dead as he saw the victim’s face distorted by decay, yet still unmistakable. Julian Grant. The girl was right.

Richard stepped forward, his hands shaking as he snapped photos of the scene, fighting off nausea. Lisa pulled out a small pouch next to the body. Another piece of evidence a broken phone.

Send it to tech. Recover everything, Mark ordered, eyes locked on the corpse. Lisa nodded.

The body has been dead at least 72 hours. No restraints. Fatal blow to the head, consistent with a sudden strike from behind.

Blood pooled on the back and collar indicates he was attacked while standing, then fell and was bagged. Richard jotted down notes. So Julian never had a chance to fight back.

Death was quick. Lisa added, no defensive wounds on the hands. Left hand still clenched likely a final reflex before losing consciousness.

Another forensic tech James Morgan quietly peeled back the rest of the burlap. He shuddered upon seeing a digital watch still strapped to the corpse’s wrist. The screen was cracked, but the hands were frozen at 2.42 a.m. Could be time of death, Lisa whispered.

Matches the camera footage of Martha leaving the house with Anna. Mark turned to Richard. Call Rose.

Tell her to prepare the indictment file. This is a clear-cut murder case. Nothing left to debate.

At the central holding facility, Martha Grant sat on a narrow metal bed, eyes blank as she stared through the small barred window. When the door opened, Rose Martin stepped in, holding a thick case file. Do you have anything to say? Rose asked bluntly.

No, Martha replied, her voice hollow. We’ve excavated the kitchen floor. Julian’s body was there.

A dark fabric sack. Blood. The blow.

A phone. A broken watch that stopped the moment you took your daughter outside. Nothing to add.

Martha gave a faint, bitter smile. I guess you’re happy to be right. Rose leaned forward.

I don’t need to be right. I need the truth. And you you need to decide if you’re a murderer or a victim.

Martha didn’t respond. She stood and slowly began pacing her cell. Without turning around, she said, Julian said he was leaving me.

He said he’d take Anna. I couldn’t let that happen. Rose narrowed her eyes.

You’re admitting you killed your husband? Martha stayed silent. You planned everything pretending to take your daughter away as an alibi, buying materials to redo the floor that same night. This wasn’t rage.

It was calculated. He drove me mad, Martha whispered. I felt like a ghost.

If I hadn’t struck first, I would have disappeared. Rose’s voice turned cold. You could have divorced him.

You could have reported him. But instead, you chose murder and buried him under the very floor where your daughter plays every morning. Martha clenched her fists, her voice sharp, I don’t regret it.

In the digital forensics room, technician Stephen Harris sat by the computer, eyes fixed on the screen. A short video clip had just been extracted from the damaged phone. Only 38 seconds long but it was a priceless piece of evidence.

Mark and Richard stood behind him. The screen displayed nighttime footage seemingly from an internal camera placed high in the corner of the kitchen. In the video, Julian stood facing Martha, holding a small suitcase.

Martha, I’m leaving. My lawyer will contact you in the morning, he said clearly. You’re not going anywhere, Martha replied, her voice low.

I don’t want Anna to see this. Don’t make things worse. Julian turned away.

Martha picked up an object it appeared to be a cast iron pan and rushed toward him from behind. The video stopped at that exact moment. Stephen’s voice trembled.

That’s all. That’s the whole clip. Mark clenched his fists.

We have everything we need. Now, we wait for trial. That night, Carol held Anna in her arms.

The child had fallen asleep after a nightmare, her hair soaked in cold sweat. Carol whispered, your dad will have his voice heard. And you, you will live as a child again, not as a witness to a crime.

Outside, rain began to fall light, but cold. And beneath the floor tiles that had been removed, the kitchen now sat empty but the memory of death remained, soaked into every tile, every seam of grout, like the last breath of a man betrayed. The official preliminary hearing took place in the regional courthouse of the state of Illinois.

Inside, the air was so heavy it felt suffocating. Martha Grant was brought in wearing a gray prison uniform, her hair no longer neatly styled like on the first day. Her eyes still held a trace of defiance, but also revealed fatigue and strain.

On the opposite side was prosecutor Rose Martin, face sharp and cold as usual. Beside her sat detective Mark Rivers and investigator Richard Monroe. On the public benches, Carol mother of the victim Julian sat quietly, clutching the hand of her granddaughter Anna, who sat obediently beside her.

Rose began calmly, Mrs. Martha, today we are giving you the opportunity to state the full truth. This is your final chance to explain your actions. If not, the evidence is sufficient to proceed with a charge of first-degree murder.

Martha gave a bitter smile. The truth? Since when do the ones wearing handcuffs get the privilege of telling their side of the story? Mark replied coldly, since the moment you picked up a cast iron pan and ended your husband’s life. Since you turned your kitchen into a grave for the man your daughter called dad.

Martha glanced at Carol and Anna her eyes flickered for a moment, but quickly returned to a steady calm. Julian wasn’t the saint you all think he was. Richard raised an eyebrow.

Explain. Martha licked her lips, then began speaking, each word measured and emotionless. When we first got married, Julian was gentle, kind…