Night draped itself over the city like a velvet curtain, the skyline glowing with a soft pulse beyond Emma's office window. The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock was the only sound as she sat at her desk, immersed in legal briefs and court transcripts. Her fingers highlighted a line of text, then paused.
For a moment, she simply stared—unseeing—eyes glazed with fatigue. The thrill of the day's victory had long since faded, replaced by a quiet drive to prepare for the next battle.
Her phone buzzed, slicing through the silence.
She glanced down. Unknown Number.
Her brow furrowed.
Reluctantly, she answered. "Emma Carter speaking."
The voice on the other end was calm, firm—authoritative, "Ms. Carter, this is Detective Ryan Brooks of the NYPD. We need you to come home immediately."
Emma sat upright. "What's this about?"
A pause.
"It's your husband, ma'am," the voice said gravely. "There's been an incident."
Emma froze, her pen slipping from her fingers and landing with a dull tap on the desk.
"I-I don't understand," she said, her voice cracking. "What happened?"
"Please, Ms. Carter. Just come home."
The call disconnected.
Emma didn't remember grabbing her coat or her bag. The next thing she knew, she was sprinting down the office corridor, her heels echoing behind her like gunshots.
Her car screeched to a halt in front of their apartment building.
The street was ablaze with red and blue lights. Police cars lined the curb. A yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front entrance like a warning sign from another world.
Emma pushed past the onlookers, her breath shallow.
"Where is he?!" she shouted. "Where's my husband?!"
An officer tried to stop her, but another figure stepped forward—Detective Ryan Brooks, a middle-aged man with hard eyes and a somber expression.
"Ms. Carter," he said gently, "I need you to stay calm."
"Tell me what happened!" she cried.
His jaw tightened before he spoke.
"I'm so sorry… but Daniel is dead."
The world tilted.
"No…" Her voice was a broken whisper. "No. He just called me. We had dinner. He was fine!"
"There was a forced entry," Brooks said carefully. "Multiple stab wounds. It looks like a homicide."
Emma staggered back, unable to breathe. Her heart pounded wildly, fists clenched. She tried to move toward the entrance, but an officer barred the way.
"Ma'am, you can't go in. It's an active crime scene."
Emma's eyes brimmed with tears as her lips quivered. "Who would do this…?"
Brooks exchanged a look with another officer.
"That's what we're trying to figure out."
Time had no meaning.
Emma sat on the front steps of her apartment building, numb. Police milled around her, gathering evidence, photographing scenes, whispering into radios.
She couldn't feel the cold night air. Couldn't feel anything at all.
Then a sergeant approached Detective Brooks, speaking in hushed tones.
Brooks' expression hardened.
"Ms. Carter," he said, walking back toward her, "we need to ask you some questions at the station."
"What?" Emma blinked. "Now? I—I just—"
"It's procedure," Brooks said, his voice low. "We found something… troubling."
Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
An officer stepped forward.
"We found your fingerprints on the murder weapon."
Emma blinked slowly, trying to process the words.
"That's impossible."
Brooks's expression shifted, no longer sympathetic—professional now. Cold.
"Emma Carter, you are under arrest for the murder of Daniel Carter."
Hands grabbed her arms.
"No! This is a mistake!" she cried, panic surging.
"You have the right to remain silent," Brooks began.
Flashes of light exploded as reporters captured the moment. Emma struggled, tears now streaming.
"I DIDN'T KILL MY HUSBAND!"
The car door slammed shut.
Everything went black.