Chapter 13

The ping of my inbox sliced through the stillness of the room. I lunged for the mouse, clicking with a ferocity that betrayed my calm exterior. Matt's name flashed on the screen, and the subject line simply read "Case Files." My heart hammered as I opened the email, downloading the attachment without a second's hesitation.

"Come on; come on," I muttered to myself, the progress bar inching along as if wading through molasses. When the files finally bloomed open on my computer, I wasted no time in diving into the digital depths.

Images cascaded across the screen, each crime scene photo a macabre jigsaw piece waiting to be fitted into place. My eyes narrowed, the world around me fading until there was nothing but the task at hand. A shattered floor vase lay like a fractured skull on the hardwood floor; I could almost hear the echoes of it breaking as Angela knocked it over when ending her days at the bottom of the stairs.

Photo after photo scrolled past, my mouse wheel squeaking slightly under the pressure of my thumb. A glass with a lipstick stain that spoke of hurried sips taken perhaps amidst an argument.

"Interesting," I exhaled softly, leaning closer to the monitor. I noticed a faint smudge on the doorframe to the bedroom. I filled my notepad with scribbles, arrows pointing from one observation to another, forming a roadmap of disorder and desperation.

The images conjured questions that buzzed in my mind like hornets. Where was the struggle? What secrets did the silent walls keep? I dissected every shadow and reflection, searching for that elusive thread that would unravel the truth.

My focus never wavered as I cataloged each anomaly, each inconsistency. Time ceased to exist, measured only by the growing list of notes before me. There was a story here, woven within these digital frames, and I was determined to read between the pixels.

The cursor blinked on the screen like a heartbeat, persistent and rhythmic. I clicked on the video file labeled "Interview – Carol Rudolph" and watched as the scene unfolded, Carol's living room coming into focus behind her. She was perched on the edge of an antique sofa, her fingers laced tightly in her lap. She was about six or seven years younger than Angela had been. Good looking, too. Beautiful even.

"Ms. Carol Rudolph," the off-screen interviewer began, and I leaned forward, eyes narrowing as I studied her every micro-expression. There was something about the way her gaze darted to the left, how her lips pressed into a thin line when Angela's name came up. The calibration of my instincts told me there was more beneath her words, and I trusted that gut feeling like a lifeline.

"Everything was fine until Angela moved in," Carol said, her voice a touch too casual. But the flicker of anger in her eyes, quickly masked,caught my attention. "That's when everything changed around here. She never liked me. I was friends with Will long before they got married. He bought the house almost the same time I did mine, with the money I had inherited from my parents when they died. Will and I would hang out all the time before he married her. I barely ever saw him after that. She wouldn't allow it."

I paused the video, taking a moment to let the insight simmer. This video wasn't going to be enough. It was time for a face-to-face conversation.