My little sister called me at 11:53 p.m., crying so hard I thought someone had hurt her.

At first, all I heard was breath.

Broken, wet, panicked breath rushing through the speaker while I stood barefoot in the middle of my kitchen with a half-empty mug of tea cooling in my hand.

“Scarlett?” I said, already reaching for my keys.

“What happened?”

She tried to speak, but the words dissolved into sobs.

I heard a man’s voice in the background.

Then my mother’s.

Then the heavy, clipped sound of my father saying something I couldn’t make out.

“Clare,” Scarlett finally choked.

“Please.

Please just come to the police station.”

My blood went cold.

I asked her if she had been attacked.

I asked if she was safe.

I asked if someone had died, and when she cried harder, I stopped asking questions and ran.

The drive to the downtown precinct blurred into a chain of red lights, wet pavement, and my own pulse pounding in my ears.

It had rained earlier, leaving the streets slick and reflective, turning every traffic signal into a trembling smear of color.

I remember gripping the steering wheel so tightly my fingers hurt.

I remember telling myself that whatever had happened, I would handle it.

That was what I did in my family.

I handled the things nobody else wanted to touch.

When I walked into the precinct, I expected chaos.

An ambulance.

A torn coat.

A bruised face.

Something that matched the terror in Scarlett’s voice.

Instead, I found my parents already there.

My mother was sitting beside Scarlett in the waiting area, both arms around her like my sister was a child waking from a nightmare.

Scarlett’s mascara had run down her cheeks in shiny black trails, and her pale blue sweater was bunched in her fists.

My father stood nearby in his long wool coat, jaw locked, staring at the floor with the controlled irritation of a man whose evening had been interrupted by someone else’s incompetence.

The moment they saw me, something shifted.

Not relief.

Recognition.

Like a missing tool had arrived.

My mother looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, but there was no warmth in them.

My father lifted his head slowly.

Scarlett looked away.

“What happened?” I asked.

No one answered.

A detective came through a side door then.

He was in his forties, tall, with dark hair threaded with gray and a face that looked like it had learned not to react too quickly.

His badge read Mercer.

“Clare Bennett?”

I nodded.

“I’m Detective Daniel Mercer.

Come with me, please.”

The word please did not make it feel like a request.

He led us into a small interview room with gray walls, a metal table, and four plastic chairs.

The air smelled like stale coffee and disinfectant.

A camera sat high in one corner, its red light glowing so faintly I almost missed it.

Scarlett sank into a chair immediately.

My mother stood behind her and began stroking her hair, murmuring, “Breathe, sweetheart.

Just breathe.”

I stood by the table, still wearing the old hoodie I had thrown on before leaving my apartment.

My hair was damp from running through the parking lot.

One of my shoes had come untied.

Detective Mercer opened a folder.

“At approximately 10:41