Westbrook, New Jersey. 03:47 a.m. The rain hit the white fences like whispers of guilt. Behind the trimmed hedges and the lifeless lawn of 1185 River Hollow Lane, the silence was too perfect — the kind of silence that smells like blood. The house was still. No lights. No sound. Just the faint ticking of a vintage clock over a fireplace, and the soft hum of the ceiling fan circling above two bodies. Edward and Marianne Sullivan. Married for eleven years. Respected. Rich. Beautiful. Now dead. Edward s body lay slumped over the velvet couch, his chest punctured by something sharp — something deliberate. His shirt soaked in red, mouth open, like he had tried to scream but found no breath. If you want know more, read the book.
