When we were finally allowed inside, my parents looked smaller than I had ever seen them, surrounded by machines that hummed and beeped steadily, their bodies still and fragile under the harsh lights.
I leaned close to my mother and whispered, “You are not allowed to leave like this, do you hear me,” but there was no response except the mechanical rhythm of assisted breathing.
Back in the hallway, I checked my phone and saw two messages from Brittany asking if I was okay and telling me to reach out if I needed anything.
The words felt rehearsed, distant, and strangely disconnected from the reality unfolding around me.
I called her twice, but both times the call went to voicemail.
Miles watched me carefully and asked, “Emily, she is not answering at all,” and I shook my head slowly, feeling something uneasy settle deep inside my chest.
Later, a detective named Marcus Hale approached us with calm professionalism and asked a series of questions about recent repairs, access to the house, and who had keys.
When I mentioned Brittany, his pen paused slightly before he wrote her name down.