There he was. My son. Bloody, bruised, leaning against the doorframe, one hand pressed to his side, his clothes torn, his face swollen, his forehead split open. But he was alive.
“Daniel!” I cried, catching him before he collapsed.
I dragged him inside, locked the door, and laid him down on the kitchen floor. As I pressed towels to his wounds, he grabbed my hand and whispered, “She tried to kill me.”
“Who?”
“Laura. Laura and her boyfriend.”
That night, as I cleaned his cuts and wrapped his injuries, he told me everything. Laura had been having an affair for months with a man named Ryan.
A few weeks earlier, Daniel had found messages on her phone. At first he thought it was just an affair. Then he realized they were talking about his life insurance and how to get rid of him.
That morning Laura had suggested they take a drive and talk about fixing their marriage. Daniel had agreed, hoping maybe there was still something left to save.
Instead, she drove him out to a quiet road near Brookfield. Ryan was waiting there. They dragged Daniel out of the car.
Ryan beat him with a metal pipe while Laura held his arms and laughed. Daniel said the sound of her laughing hurt worse than the blows.