Chapter 2 - The Evidence Under the Wheelchair Cushion
The arrival of the Silver Creek Police Department threw the makeshift funeral into absolute chaos. Two patrol cars parked on the front lawn, their blue and red lights flashing against the white canopy. Officer Higgins, a man I had known since high school, walked in with a stern expression.
"Alex, what's going on here? Your mother called dispatch saying you were having a mental breakdown," Higgins said, his hand resting cautiously on his utility belt.
"No, Jim," I replied, my voice dangerously calm. "I called 911. I want this funeral stopped immediately. My wife did not commit suicide, and I want a full forensics team upstairs right now."
My mother shrieked, clutching her chest as if having a heart attack, a theatrical move she often used to manipulate situations. "He's lost his mind! Please, officers, my daughter-in-law hanged herself. It’s an open-and-shut case. The coroner already signed the papers!"
"Which coroner?" I snapped.
"Dr. Evans," Aunt Beatrice interjected smoothly. "He works closely with my funeral home. Everything was handled legally and respectfully."
While the officers debated how to proceed, I remembered my paralyzed father’s frantic gestures. I walked over to his wheelchair. He looked up at me, his eyes pleading, and tapped his left leg. I reached under the thick memory-foam cushion of his chair. My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic.
I pulled it out. It was a small, blood-stained silver key, attached to a USB flash drive.
My mother gasped. Derek took a step backward, bumping into a floral arrangement and knocking it over with a loud crash.
"What is that, Alex?" Higgins asked, stepping closer.
"I don't know yet," I said, holding it up. "But my father hid it here for a reason. And considering my brother has a fresh handprint on his face and my daughter just accused him of assault, I demand you secure the upstairs bedroom as a crime scene."
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Realizing the gravity of the situation, Higgins radioed for backup. Detectives arrived within twenty minutes. They marched up to the third floor. I followed them, my heart pounding against my ribs. When they pushed open the door to my master bedroom, the smell of bleach hit us like a physical blow.
The room had been scrubbed clean. Too clean. But in their haste, they had missed something crucial. The doorframe was splintered, confirming Lily's story that Derek had kicked it in. And on the carpet, hidden beneath the edge of the bed, was a single, long scratch mark in the hardwood—as if someone had been dragged by their feet.
