The Investigation
Two police officers arrived within minutes. The sterile scent of the hospital room was now mixed with tension. They asked questions rapidly — about David’s job, his recent activities, anyone who might hold a grudge.
“Does he work with chemicals?”
“Any recent arguments at work?”
“Has anyone in your family shown similar symptoms?
“He works in construction,” I replied shakily. “He’s been on a new site outside of town for the past few months. Long hours… new crew.”
When I mentioned that sometimes David came home with a strange, metallic smell on his clothes, one of the detectives glanced sharply at the doctor.
“That might be our lead,” he murmured.
They took samples of his shirt and swabbed the area on his back. The room buzzed with quiet urgency. I sat in the corner, trembling, as David lay there — pale, silent, his eyes full of confusion.
When he finally looked at me, he whispered, “It’s okay, Liv. Don’t cry.”
But I did.
Because deep down, I already knew this wasn’t “okay.”
