After burying my wife, I finally unlocked the barn she had never allowed me to enter. For 37 years, it had been sealed off, a place she insisted held nothing but old tools and useless clutter. I expected dust, silence, and memories long forgotten.

I should have checked that ladder. I should have made sure it was safe.

But something did not feel right.

When I got back to the farm that afternoon, I went straight to the silo. The broken ladder was still lying on the ground where it had fallen. I picked up the piece with the broken rung and examined it closely.

The wood was not rotten.

It was not worn.

It had been cut.

Sawed almost all the way through, just enough so that it would hold Brian’s weight for a few steps, but not enough to support him once he reached the top.

My stomach turned.

I walked over to the security camera mounted on the barn, the one that faced the silo. I pulled out my phone and accessed the footage.

And there he was.

Dennis.

The timestamp said 11:30 the night before.

Dennis had walked onto the property carrying a small handsaw. He climbed up the ladder, stopped at the eighth rung from the top, and carefully sawed through it. Not all the way. Just enough to weaken it. Then he climbed back down and left.

I felt sick.

I called Detective Walsh.

He arrived an hour later. I showed him the ladder. I showed him the video.

He watched it twice, his expression grim.