margins.
Daniel’s handwriting.
My chest tightened as I remembered the man I had loved for eighteen years—the man who cooked terrible pancakes every Sunday, who remembered my favourite coffee creamer, and who held me through my father’s funeral.
Had he been studying the murders?
Or had he been involved in them?
By midnight, Daniel was considered a prime suspect.
I did not sleep.
The following morning, Detective Kellan returned with forensic results from the florist order.
“The fingerprints are not Daniel’s,” he said.
Relief and confusion collided inside me.
“Then
