The Sunday roast at my parents' house smelled like childhood—rosemary and garlic, the familiar crackle of potatoes in the oven. But as I sat at their worn wooden table, Emma babbling happily in her high chair, the comfort I'd once found here felt as distant as a half-remembered dream.

"You look tired, sweetheart," Mom said, setting down a steaming platter of beef. Her eyes, the same hazel as mine, were creased with concern. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Emma's been waking up more lately," I lied, not wanting to admit that it was my racing thoughts, not my daughter's cries, that kept me staring at the ceiling until dawn.

Dad carved the roast with practiced precision, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the kitchen window. "How's Johnathan? Haven't seen him in a while."

"He's been working a lot." The words came out automatically, a script I'd perfected over the past few weeks. "Big case."

Tom looked up from his phone, his dark eyes—so like our father's—studying my face with the intensity that had made him a natural at journalism, even if he was stuck writing fluff pieces for the local paper. "What kind of case?"

"I don't really know the details." I pushed mashed potatoes around my plate, my appetite vanishing. "He doesn't like to talk about work at home."

"Smart man," Dad said approvingly. "Keep work and family separate. That's the key to a good marriage."

The irony twisted in my stomach like a knife. I took a shaky breath, knowing I had to say something before I lost my nerve entirely.

"Actually, there's something I need to talk to you all about." My voice came out smaller than I'd intended, barely audible over Emma's cheerful babbling.

Mom set down her fork, immediately alert to the shift in my tone. "What is it, honey?"

I glanced at Emma, making sure she was distracted by her toys, then looked back at my family. "I think... I think Johnathan might be having an affair."

The silence that followed was deafening. Dad's knife paused mid-slice, Mom's mouth fell open, and Tom's phone clattered onto the table.

"Anna," Mom said finally, her voice gentle but firm. "What makes you think that?"

I told them about the lipstick, about the late nights, about the way he'd looked at Miranda at the courthouse. With each detail, I watched their expressions shift from concern to skepticism to something that looked uncomfortably like pity.

"Sweetheart," Dad said when I finished, his voice carrying the patient tone he'd used when I was seven and insisted there were monsters under my bed. "You're talking about Johnathan. The man who drove three hours in a snowstorm when you had the flu. Who cried when Emma took her first steps."

"People change, Dad."

"Not that much," Mom interjected, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Honey, you've been under a lot of stress lately. New motherhood is hard, and it can make us see things that aren't really there."

The dismissal hit me like a physical blow. "I'm not imagining things."

"Of course you're not imagining the lipstick," Mom said soothingly. "But there could be a dozen explanations. Maybe it fell out of a client's purse. Maybe he was helping a colleague who was having makeup troubles. You know how thoughtful he is."

"He hit me." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Another silence, heavier this time.

"What?" Tom's voice was sharp, dangerous.

"When I asked about the lipstick, he got angry and... he slapped me." I touched my cheek reflexively, though the bruise had long since faded.

Dad's face went pale. "Anna, that's a serious accusation."

"It's not an accusation, it's what happened!"

"Honey," Mom's voice was strained, "are you sure you're remembering it correctly? Sometimes when we're upset, our minds can—"

"Are you saying I'm lying?" The hurt in my voice made Emma look up from her toys, her little face scrunching with concern.

"Of course not," Dad said quickly. "But Johnathan has never shown any signs of violence. He's always been nothing but respectful and loving. Remember when you were in the hospital having Emma? He barely left your side."

"That was two years ago!" My voice rose higher than I intended, and Emma started to fuss. I forced myself to take a deep breath, bouncing her gently. "People aren't the same forever."

"But some things don't change," Mom said firmly. "Character doesn't change. And Johnathan is a good man from a good family. His father is one of the most respected doctors in the city."

"His father who thinks I'm an embarrassment to the family name?"

"Lucius was just trying to help you understand your role as a prosecutor's wife," Dad said. "It's a position that comes with certain expectations."

I stared at my parents—these people who had raised me, who had taught me to trust my instincts and stand up for myself—and felt like I was looking at strangers.

"So you don't believe me."

"We believe you think something's wrong," Mom said carefully. "But we also think you might be seeing problems where there aren't any. Marriage is hard work, sweetheart. Every couple goes through rough patches."

Tom had been silent through most of the conversation, but now he leaned forward, his jaw tight. "What exactly did you see at the courthouse, Anna?"

I described the scene again—the intimate body language, the way Miranda had touched Johnathan's arm, the look on his face that I hadn't seen directed at me in months.

"That does sound suspicious," Tom said slowly, ignoring our parents' sharp looks.

"Tom," Dad warned.

"No, Dad. Anna's not stupid, and she's not crazy." Tom's voice carried an edge I'd rarely heard before. "If she says something's off, maybe we should listen."

"What are you suggesting?" Mom asked, her voice tight.

"I'm suggesting that maybe we should find out for sure." Tom turned to me, his expression serious. "Anna, if you really think Johnathan's cheating, we need proof. Real proof, not just suspicions."

"Tom, that's ridiculous," Dad protested. "Spying on your brother-in-law? Following him around like some kind of private detective?"

"Why not?" Tom's eyes flashed. "If he's innocent, we'll find that out too. And Anna can have peace of mind."

I looked at my brother—really looked at him—and saw something I hadn't expected. Belief. He was the only person in this room who wasn't looking at me like I was a hysterical housewife losing her grip on reality.

"You'd do that for me?" I whispered.

"Anna, you're my sister. Of course I'd do that for you." Tom reached across the table and squeezed my free hand. "If this bastard is hurting you, I want to know about it."

"Language," Mom said automatically, but her heart wasn't in the reprimand.

"I mean it," Tom continued, his voice steady and determined. "Give me a few days. I'll follow him, see what he's really up to when he says he's working late. If he's clean, great. If he's not..." His jaw tightened. "Well, then we'll deal with that too."

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again. Someone believed me. Someone was willing to help.

"Tom, this is a terrible idea," Mom said, but I could hear the uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"Is it?" Tom challenged. "If Johnathan's really the perfect husband you think he is, then he won't mind being proven innocent, right?"

Dad opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, apparently unable to find a flaw in Tom's logic.

"Okay," I said quietly. "Okay, let's do it."

Tom nodded, his expression grim but determined. "I'll start tomorrow. And Anna? Whatever we find, we'll handle it together."

As we cleaned up from dinner, I caught Mom watching me with worried eyes, and Dad kept shaking his head like he couldn't believe what his family was planning. But Tom moved with purpose, already planning his investigation, and for the first time since I'd found that lipstick, I didn't feel completely alone.

I just hoped we were wrong about Johnathan.

But deep down, in a place I was afraid to acknowledge, I hoped we were right.

The photograph on Tom's phone screen burned itself into my retinas like a brand. Johnathan and Miranda, sitting across from each other at an intimate corner table, her hand covering his on the white tablecloth. His face was soft in the candlelight, wearing that same expression of genuine happiness I'd seen at the courthouse—the one that used to be mine.

"Anna? Anna, are you there?" Tom's voice crackled through the phone speaker, pulling me back from the edge of shock.

"I'm here," I whispered, my voice barely audible over Emma's babbling from her playpen. "Where... where is this?

"Marcello's, on Fifth Street. They've been here for about an hour." His voice was tight with anger. "Anna, I'm so sorry. I hoped I was wrong."

Marcello's. The Italian place where Johnathan had proposed to me four years ago, where we'd celebrated our first anniversary. The betrayal cut deeper than I'd thought possible—not just that he was with her, but that he'd taken her to our place.

"I have to go there," I said, already moving toward the closet to grab my jacket. "I have to see this for myself."

"Anna, wait—"

"No, Tom. I need to confront them. I need to look him in the eye and make him tell me the truth."

"Then I'll meet you there. Don't go in alone."

I was already sliding my arms into my coat, my hands shaking so badly I could barely work the buttons. "Okay. I'll wait for you in the parking lot."

"Give me ten minutes. I'm not far."

I hung up and called Mrs. Patterson from next door, my voice surprisingly steady as I asked if she could watch Emma for an hour. She agreed immediately, bless her, sensing the urgency in my tone without asking questions.

The drive to Marcello's passed in a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles went white, and I kept replaying the image from Tom's phone—the way Miranda had leaned forward, the intimate curve of Johnathan's smile, the casual way their fingers intertwined like they'd done it a thousand times before.

How long had this been going on? Weeks? Months? Had he been lying to my face every single day, coming home to me and Emma with her scent still on his clothes, her taste still on his lips?

I tried calling Tom as I turned onto Fifth Street, needing to coordinate our approach, but his phone went straight to voicemail.

"Tom, it's me. I'm almost there. Call me back."

I tried again at the next red light. Voicemail.

And again as I pulled into the shopping complex where Marcello's was located. Still nothing.

That was odd. Tom always answered his phone, especially when we were in the middle of something this important. Maybe his battery had died, or he was driving through a dead zone. But unease prickled at the back of my neck as I parked my car and looked toward the restaurant.

That's when I saw them.

Police cars. Three of them, their red and blue lights painting the evening in harsh, alternating colors. An ambulance sat nearby, its back doors open. A crowd of people had gathered on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what was happening.

My blood turned to ice.

I stumbled out of my car, my legs unsteady, and pushed through the cluster of onlookers. A police officer was setting up yellow tape around the restaurant's entrance, his face grim.

"What happened?" I asked a woman standing near me, her face pale in the flashing lights.

"Someone died," she whispered, clutching her purse tighter. "In the bathroom. They found a body."

The world tilted sideways. I grabbed the nearest parking meter to steady myself, my vision swimming.

"Excuse me." I approached the officer with the tape, my voice coming out in a croak. "Officer, what happened here?"

He looked up, his expression professional but kind. "There's been an incident, ma'am. A young man was found deceased in the men's restroom. Appears to be a head injury."

A young man.

Head injury.

"What... what did he look like?" The question fell from my lips before I could stop it.

"Ma'am, I can't release details about the victim until family has been notified."

But I was already pushing past him, past the tape, ignoring his shouts for me to stop. I had to know. I had to see.

The restaurant's interior was chaos—overturned chairs, abandoned meals growing cold, the staff huddled together near the kitchen looking shell-shocked. EMTs were wheeling a gurney toward the front door, a white sheet covering the form strapped to it.

I caught a glimpse of dark hair sticking out from under the sheet. Hair the same color as mine. The same color as Dad's.

The same color as Tom's.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here!" A police officer grabbed my arm, trying to guide me back toward the entrance.

"That's my brother!" The words tore from my throat in a scream that didn't sound like my own voice. "That's my brother!"

I broke free and lunged toward the gurney, my hands reaching for the sheet. The EMT tried to stop me, but I was faster, desperate, pulling back the white fabric before anyone could intervene.

Tom's face stared back at me, pale and still. His dark eyes—so much like Dad's, so full of life and determination just hours ago—were closed forever. Blood had dried in his hair, and there was a terrible dent in his forehead where it had connected with something hard and unforgiving.

"No." The word came out as barely a whisper. "No, no, no, no, no."

I collapsed beside the gurney, my hands clutching at Tom's still-warm fingers. He'd been alive an hour ago. He'd been taking pictures, gathering evidence, trying to help me. And now he was gone.

"Ma'am, please step back." The officer's voice seemed to come from very far away. "We need to process the scene."

But I couldn't let go. Couldn't accept that my baby brother—the only person who had believed me, who had been willing to fight for me—was lying dead on a restaurant floor.

"What happened to him?" I demanded, looking up at the officer through my tears. "How did this happen?"

"We're still investigating, ma'am. It appears he slipped and hit his head on the sink. A tragic accident."

Accident.

The word echoed in my head as I stared at Tom's peaceful face. But something was wrong with that explanation. Tom was careful, athletic, sure-footed. He didn't just slip and fall.

And he'd been here taking pictures of Johnathan and Miranda.

Johnathan and Miranda, who were nowhere to be seen now.

As the EMTs gently pried my hands away from Tom's body and loaded him into the ambulance, one terrible thought crystallized in my mind with perfect, horrifying clarity.

This wasn't an accident.

This was murder.