The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving only the warm hum of evening lights scattered across the quiet neighborhood. In one modest home at the end of Wisteria Lane, laughter rang out. A woman sat cross-legged on the living room floor, holding a wooden puzzle piece and pretending she couldn't figure out where it went.
"Hmm…" she murmured dramatically. "Is this a spaceship or a potato?"
Grayson, the seven-year-old boy across from her, giggled uncontrollably. "It's the moon! You always say potato when it's the moon!"
"Ohhh," she said, grinning, "so it goes here?" She nudged the piece into place and gave a little cheer as the starry sky on the puzzle took shape.
Grayson leaned back against the couch, proudly admiring their work. "We're gonna finish it today, right?"
"Of course we are," the woman said. "And when we do, I've got a surprise for you upstairs."
His eyes lit up. "A surprise?! What is it?"
She tapped her lips playfully. "That would ruin the surprise, wouldn't it?"
Grayson laughed and shook his head, his dark brown hair bouncing as he flopped onto his side. A few moments passed in silence, just the two of them, the ticking clock, and the quiet hum of the heater.
Then came a sound.
Glass—shattering.
It was distant, but sharp enough to pierce the calm.
Grayson sat up instantly, alert. "Mom? What was that?"
She blinked, staring toward the hallway. Her voice was calm, too calm. "Probably just the neighbor. Dropped something in the kitchen, that's all."
Grayson frowned. "But it was loud."
She stood and tousled his hair. "I'll check on it later. For now, how about you go upstairs? I've got that surprise waiting."
Grayson hesitated, but her smile reassured him.
"Okay," he mumbled and headed up the stairs.
The moment his small footsteps faded, her expression changed.
She turned quietly toward the kitchen, her breath low, movements careful. She opened a drawer beside the fridge and pulled out a long, stainless steel knife. Her hand tightened around the handle.
A creak echoed down the hallway.
Someone was inside.
She moved slowly toward the hallway, every step measured. A figure stepped into view—masked, cloaked in black, unidentifiable. The two locked eyes for a brief moment.
Without hesitation, she charged.
The blade slashed forward, cutting the intruder's hand—a clean, deep cut. Blood sprayed onto the wall. He staggered back, but recovered fast. Too fast.
She swung again—but too late.
A powerful blow caught her off guard. The knife clattered to the ground. She gasped, stumbled backward. The intruder lunged, and with a final thrust, ended it.
⸻
Grayson sat in his room, swinging his feet from the bed, excitement fading into unease. The silence was too heavy now. He called out:
"Mom?"
No answer.
He stepped out of his room, holding his teddy bear close. He descended the stairs slowly, one hand on the railing. Then he saw it.
His mother.
Lying in the hallway.
Still.
Blood pooled around her.
His breath vanished.
He screamed.
⸻
Mr. Denton, the elderly man next door, had just settled into bed when he heard the knocking. No, pounding. He rushed to the door, finding Grayson sobbing, barefoot and wild-eyed, his words tripping over one another.
"She—she's not waking up! Please, Mr. Denton!"
The old man didn't ask questions. He pulled Grayson inside, grabbed his coat, and ran toward the boy's house.
The moment he saw the woman's body, he called the police.
⸻
By the time the flashing red-and-blue lights bathed the street, a small crowd had gathered at a respectful distance. Officers secured the perimeter with yellow caution tape, corralling curious neighbors away. Inside the house, crime scene markers dotted the hallway.
Sergeant Jaden Hensley stood in the living room, arms crossed, eyes on the silent child wrapped in a blanket on Mr. Denton's couch.
"Name?" he asked one of the patrolmen.
"No ID yet. She lived here with the boy—single mother. Nothing else we know."
"Fingerprint the mail, look for prescription labels," Hensley said. "And check the drawer by the fridge—looks like she pulled a knife before the struggle. Probably tried to defend herself."
The patrolman nodded and stepped away.
Hensley rubbed his temple. "We'll need a full warrant. Search every inch. Someone was after her. This wasn't random."
A voice on the radio crackled to life.
"Dispatch to Hensley. What's your status?"
"Confirmed fatality," he replied. "We're dealing with a murder. One civilian dead. Child survivor on site. Requesting specialist detectives."
"Copy that," the voice said. "Julian Silverbrook and Thorne Ashford are en route. The rest of their team is being dispatched as well. Warrant approved."
Hensley nodded. "Copy that."
He turned back to look at the boy. Grayson sat unmoving, his eyes fixed on the floor.
"Poor kid," one of the officers said quietly. "Saw the whole thing, maybe."
Hensley sighed. "Let him breathe. Don't push questions yet."
A few minutes later, a c