My grandson called me from the police station at 2:47 a.m., choking back tears: “Grandma, my stepmother says I made her fall and Dad believes every word she says, he doesn’t believe me,” but when I arrived the officer saw me, froze, went pale and whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who you were,” and from that moment my family was forced to face the truth.

That’s when I saw it. On my phone screen, behind a pile of broken notebooks, something shone.

“Stop,” I murmured to myself. “Focus on that.”

As if he had heard me, Ethan moved the notebooks.

And there it was—a silver candlestick, heavy, antique, with dark spots at the base.

Blood.

“He found it,” Linda said. “That’s it.”

Chelsea’s voice interrupted from the stairs.

“Are you done? You’ve been up there for fifteen minutes.”

“Almost,” Ethan replied, his voice surprisingly calm.

Quickly, with trembling hands, he took out his personal phone and snapped several pictures of the candlestick. Then he left it exactly where it was and closed the drawer.

“Well done,” I murmured.

Ethan left his room with the backpack on his shoulder. He started down the stairs. Chelsea was waiting for him at the bottom, arms crossed.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Then you can leave and not come back.”