The front door opened with care, and the air inside pressed heavy against their chests, thick in a way that made every breath feel borrowed rather than owned, and even seasoned officers felt their instincts sharpen as they moved down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom.
There were no signs of chaos, no overturned furniture or broken glass, just an unsettling stillness that suggested something had gone deeply wrong without ever announcing itself.
Lily’s parents lay side by side on the bed, unmoving, their faces peaceful in a way that did not match the urgency unfolding around them, and Reeves felt a chill settle low in his stomach as his eyes flicked to the smoke detector on the wall, its small light blinking uselessly.
The batteries were gone.
Firefighters moved in quickly, windows opened, ventilation begun, while paramedics worked with focused urgency, lifting, assessing, stabilizing, their movements precise and fast.
Outside, Lily watched from a distance, her fingers twisting the ears of her stuffed fox until the seams stretched.
“Are they going to wake up?” she asked a nurse who crouched beside her, eyes gentle above her mask.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the nurse replied, honest without being cruel, her hand resting lightly on Lily’s arm.
