Ginny’s fury rolled through the empty house like choking smoke. She stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the chaos with widening, disbelieving eyes. They had assumed Max had failed to call, because she was still buried under chores, too slow, and too overwhelmed to keep up.
But this? This wasn’t forgetfulness. This was rebellion. The house smelled exactly as it had when they left, the faint sourness of old takeout lingering in the air, dust sitting heavy on untouched surfaces. And beneath it all, thick and metallic, was blood.
Ginny flicked on the living room light with a sharp slap. The copper scent intensified. A dark pool still glistened on the floor, not fully dried. The overturned coffee table lay where it had crashed. A smeared handprint streaked the wall fingers dragged down
