Chief Mark Rivers looked up at the incident report that had just been handed to him. Name of the reporting party, Martha Grant.

Content, missing husband. No trace, no additional notes. But what caught his attention was that the person who came to file the report wasn’t Martha it was her neighbor, Mrs. Frances Davis and with her, a four-year-old girl tightly clutching a teddy bear, her face pale as a sheet.

She didn’t want me to take the little girl anywhere, Frances said, her voice urgent. But the girl, she said something strange. You need to hear it.

Mark sat down, his expression softening as he looked toward Anna. What’s your name, sweetheart? I’m Anna, the girl replied, her voice barely a whisper. Do you know where your daddy went, he asked gently.

Anna didn’t answer right away. She looked up, her large dark eyes trembling, then slowly said, Daddy, is under the kitchen floor. The air in the room turned ice cold.

Mark glanced at Frances her face had gone pale. A young officer nearby coughed quietly, trying to hide a shiver. What did you say? Mark leaned in, his tone no longer gentle, but cautious.

Daddy’s under the kitchen floor, Anna repeated. Where the tiles are a lighter color. Daddy’s really cold.

An eerie silence fell over the room. Mark immediately signaled for Lt. Richard Monroe to step closer.

Get Martha Grant to the station. Set up a preliminary investigation team. I want the scene checked within the hour.

Less than thirty minutes later, Martha arrived far more composed and dry-eyed than Mark had expected. She wore a white blouse and black pants, her hair neatly tied, eyes showing no sign of panic or grief. I’ve told you already, Martha said calmly.

My husband Julian has a habit of disappearing for a few days without warning. This isn’t the first time. You didn’t find anything unusual about that? Mark asked, not taking his eyes off her.

No, she said with a shrug. I figured he’d come back like he always does. Richard interjected, but neighbors said they heard arguing and things breaking that night.

Martha glanced at him, then sighed. We had an argument. But who doesn’t argue in a marriage? Mark nodded….

And did you renovate the kitchen floor recently? Martha paused slightly. I. I retiled the floor because there was mold. I did it myself.

You retiled it yourself? Mark asked, surprised. Yes, Martha replied quickly. I watch tutorials online.

Richard pulled out a USB drive. Your neighbor Mr. Ernest Morgan has a security camera. He provided footage showing you carrying Anna out of the house around 3 a.m. and returning alone with a bag of construction materials.

Care to explain? Martha bit her lip. I didn’t want Anna to breathe in the mold. I took her to a friend’s house.

As for the materials. I wanted to fix the house myself. Mark raised an eyebrow.

No receipt for the materials, no contractor, no official notice of repair. And the girl says her father is under the kitchen tiles. Quite the coincidence.

Martha clenched her fists, her voice rising. Are you accusing me of killing my husband? Mark replied calmly, we’re not accusing anyone. We’re asking questions.

And your answers don’t seem to line up. Martha suddenly turned to Richard. You’re an investigator, but do you know anything about an unhappy marriage? Do you know Julian used to hit me? Mark cut in.

Do you have any proof? Medical records, hospital visits, police reports. Martha was silent for a few seconds, then exhaled sharply. I didn’t go to the hospital.

I endured it. Richard tilted his head slightly toward Mark and whispered, we need an emergency search warrant. The cement smell is still fresh.

And her tone. Mark nodded. Start the paperwork.

I want forensics there first thing in the morning. The next morning, officers arrived at the small house at the end of Maplewood Street. The lead forensic officer, Lisa Parker a cold but seasoned professional knelt down and sniffed the newly laid tiles.

Cement still smells fresh. Not fully dry. There’s something underneath, she said, then turned to another technician.

Start drilling at the color discrepant area. Martha was held in the living room, watched by two officers. Anna wasn’t present Francis had taken her to her grandmother’s as Mark had requested.

Lisa pointed. We’ll drill layer by layer. Start at the light colored tiles.

The whir of the drill echoed through the heavy air. About 30 minutes later, the first layer of tiles was removed. Beneath the gray mortar, a piece of dark fabric began to show.

Lisa stopped a technician. Slow down. Use your hands for the rest.

Wearing gloves, they gently cleared away the cement. A young officer gasped, Oh my God! A human foot emerged pale blue and stiff. Mark stepped forward, silent for a few moments, then turned to Martha.

Anything you’d like to say? Martha didn’t answer. She turned her face away. Lisa’s voice was heavy.

Male body, fully wrapped in fabric. Dry blood on the head. Blunt force trauma.

Richard snapped photos of the scene, then crouched to pick up a small shattered object next to the body. It’s a phone. Cracked, but we might recover data.

Mark narrowed his eyes. Do it. Send it to tech.

Another officer ran outside and vomited. Lisa didn’t comment. Not everyone’s built for death, she said.

Mark looked at the body eyes still open, fists clenched as if he’d struggled. He turned and glanced at the silent house, the curtains swaying in the light breeze. This isn’t a disappearance.

Not an accident. This is a premeditated murder. He turned to Richard.

Arrest Martha Grant. Hold her under Section 142 Suspected Murder and Body Disposal. Richard stepped forward and read her rights.

Mrs. Martha Grant, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent. Silent? Martha scoffed bitterly.

Do you know how many years I’ve lived in silence? Mark replied plainly, well, no one needs silence anymore. The clink of handcuffs echoed through the cement-dusted room. Martha didn’t resist.

She only glanced at the tiles now removed where her husband’s body had just been uncovered her gaze hollow, as if she had nothing left to hold on to. On the transport back to the detention center, Richard glanced in the rearview mirror. Martha sat motionless, like a statue.

He thought to himself, some commit crimes in a fit of rage, but others like Martha seemed to have orchestrated a full-blown tragedy. Back at the station, Mark called for an emergency meeting. Present were the forensics team, data recovery techs, and Prosecutor Rose Martin a sharp woman with eyes like blades.

Lisa Parker spoke first. The victim Julian Grant died of blunt force trauma to the skull from behind. No signs of defensive wounds.

No blood at the burial site, indicating the body was moved before being buried. Mark nodded. This was clearly premeditated murder.

Rose folded her hands. But for a solid prosecution, we need all the puzzle pieces. Motive, timeline, physical evidence.

The girl Anna is key. But a child’s words aren’t enough. We need more.

A young tech officer, Stephen Harris, stood and presented, were recovering data from the broken phone. Most of the memory is gone, but a few texts survived before it powered off. He projected them on the screen…

A message thread between Julian and Martha appeared. Julian, Martha, I can’t do this anymore. I’m filing for divorce next week.

Martha, if you leave me, I’ll make you disappear. Julian, don’t be crazy. Think of Anna.

Martha, Anna will be fine. Without you, she and I will live better. The room fell silent.

Rose frowned. That’s enough to prove motive. Mark signaled to Richard.

Send the investigation team back to Martha’s house. Look for property papers, loan documents, anything that shows financial motivation. Two hours later, Richard returned with a box of documents.

He pulled out a stack. This is the property deed. Julian was the sole owner.

We found evidence Martha was trying to transfer ownership by claiming he was missing. He pulled out another bundle. These are loan receipts nearly $240,000 borrowed from Julian under the pretext of a small personal business investment.

No repayment made. Mark looked at Rose. Add financial motive to the threat, the scene.

That’s more than enough. Not done yet, Richard added. We discovered frequent private messages between Martha and a man named Samuel Brooks on social media.

Mark tapped the table. I want to speak with that man. That afternoon, Samuel Brooks a tall man with neatly combed hair and a dark shirt was brought into the interrogation room.

He looked nervous, eyes darting. How do you know Martha Grant? Rose asked directly. Samuel swallowed.

We met in an investment group. Talked online. Met a few times.

Were you romantically involved with her? Mark asked. Samuel hesitated. I… had feelings.

But nothing improper happened. She always said her husband was terrible, and she was tired of being controlled. Did she ever talk about hurting him? Richard asked.

Samuel took a deep breath. One time she said, I wish he would just disappear. But I thought it was just venting.

Rose repeated the words. Do you think Martha is impulsive? Samuel fell silent. No.

She’s… more calculated than I thought. Meanwhile, at the home of Carol Julian’s little Anna was sitting by the window, drawing. Carol placed a glass of milk beside her.

What are you drawing, sweetheart? she asked gently. Anna pointed at the paper, a human figure lying beneath a tiled floor, surrounded by stacked tiles. It’s daddy.

He’s under there. Carol gripped the edge of the table, her voice trembling. Who told you… about that? I heard it, Anna said, still focused on her drawing.

Mommy had a big pan. Daddy said don’t, and she hit him hard. Then daddy stopped talking.

Carol shuddered, trying to stay calm. And then what? Mommy said, don’t tell anyone. If you do, our family will fall apart.

Carol buried her face in her hands, tears flowing down her cheeks. In the interrogation room, Rose concluded, Martha didn’t just kill someone she staged a fake home repair, created a false alibi by removing the child, and coached the girl into silence. That makes this crime even more severe.

Mark nodded. I’ll recommend charges for premeditated murder, concealment of a body, and manipulating a minor into withholding testimony. She must face the full consequences.

Richard added, not just for Julian but for Anna. That child has been living in lies and violence since the age of four. Rose checked her watch.

Prepare for the preliminary hearing. I want every piece of evidence organized. And remember Anna’s words may not be admissible as formal testimony, but they are the emotional linchpin.

Mark stood up, his voice somber. We’re not just seeking justice for the dead. We’re trying to save a living soul one already scarred.

On the way back to Carol’s house, Francis asked softly, Do you think Anna really understands everything? Carol shook her head, her eyes red. She’s just a child. But the saddest thing is when a child understands too much and no one lets her speak.

Francis choked up. I’ve never seen a child so calm yet so full of pain. When Anna said, Daddy’s cold.

I got chills. Carol squeezed Francis’s hand. I’ll protect that child.

No matter what. That evening, Mark reviewed the case file. He opened a photo of Anna drawing by the window, her face unnaturally serious for her age.

He sighed. Some people bury a body after killing, he murmured, some bury their child’s entire childhood. He looked out the station window, the dim glow of night spilling over Maplewood Street.

Tomorrow, the case would officially move into prosecution. The cement had dried. But the blood would never disappear.

The next morning, under the biting cold sunlight of suburban Illinois, the forensic team and tactical police gathered around the house at 17 Maplewood Street. Once a quiet residence, the house was now surrounded by yellow tape, curious neighbors whispering behind curtains, and a line of service vehicles parked along the narrow street. Lisa Parker, the lead forensic investigator, adjusted her rubber gloves, her steely eyes scanning the kitchen floor.

She signaled two team members to begin drilling through the newly tiled area. Part of the floor had been examined the previous day, but this time, they would demolish the entire 40-cm-thick cement base at the exact location Anna had pointed out. The saw whined sharply.

Pale tiles shattered into shards. A harsh, acrid odor began to rise from beneath, thickening the air. Detective Richard Monroe wrinkled his nose, took a step back.

Decomposition smell, Lisa confirmed, her voice even, unflinching. Everyone step back. Hazmat team, move in.

Forensic tech Thomas Daniels slid a crowbar into the cement’s edge. Within ten minutes, damp earth started to appear beneath. Careful, Lisa warned.

We have signs of a buried object. Dig by hand. The scratching of small shovels echoed in the silence…

Layer by layer, fine dirt was lifted out. Sweat beaded down Thomas’s face, even though it was only about 65 degrees Fahrenheit inside the house. Suddenly, he froze, his hand trembling.

Something’s here. I touched fabric. Lisa immediately leaned down, shining her flashlight onto the soil.

Stop. Clear the surrounding dirt gently. Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

After nearly ten minutes of careful excavation, the edge of a large burlap sack appeared dark, crumpled, and blotched with deep red stains resembling dried blood. Richard stepped back, hand instinctively resting on his holstered gun, though he knew nothing alive remained beneath that earth. Get a fabric sample.

Open the bag, Lisa said, her voice low but firm. As the zipper was pulled open, a wave of putrid air burst out. Thomas turned and vomited violently into the kitchen corner.

Another officer clamped a hand over his mouth, face pale. Inside the bag, a man’s body lay curled tightly, forced into the narrow space. His head was soaked in dry blood, with a deep depression at the temple clear signs of a blunt object strike from behind.

Mark entered, stopping dead as he saw the victim’s face distorted by decay, yet still unmistakable. Julian Grant. The girl was right.

Richard stepped forward, his hands shaking as he snapped photos of the scene, fighting off nausea. Lisa pulled out a small pouch next to the body. Another piece of evidence a broken phone.

Send it to tech. Recover everything, Mark ordered, eyes locked on the corpse. Lisa nodded.

The body has been dead at least 72 hours. No restraints. Fatal blow to the head, consistent with a sudden strike from behind.

Blood pooled on the back and collar indicates he was attacked while standing, then fell and was bagged. Richard jotted down notes. So Julian never had a chance to fight back.

Death was quick. Lisa added, no defensive wounds on the hands. Left hand still clenched likely a final reflex before losing consciousness.

Another forensic tech James Morgan quietly peeled back the rest of the burlap. He shuddered upon seeing a digital watch still strapped to the corpse’s wrist. The screen was cracked, but the hands were frozen at 2.42 a.m. Could be time of death, Lisa whispered.

Matches the camera footage of Martha leaving the house with Anna. Mark turned to Richard. Call Rose.

Tell her to prepare the indictment file. This is a clear-cut murder case. Nothing left to debate.

At the central holding facility, Martha Grant sat on a narrow metal bed, eyes blank as she stared through the small barred window. When the door opened, Rose Martin stepped in, holding a thick case file. Do you have anything to say? Rose asked bluntly.

No, Martha replied, her voice hollow. We’ve excavated the kitchen floor. Julian’s body was there.

A dark fabric sack. Blood. The blow.

A phone. A broken watch that stopped the moment you took your daughter outside. Nothing to add.

Martha gave a faint, bitter smile. I guess you’re happy to be right. Rose leaned forward.

I don’t need to be right. I need the truth. And you you need to decide if you’re a murderer or a victim.

Martha didn’t respond. She stood and slowly began pacing her cell. Without turning around, she said, Julian said he was leaving me.

He said he’d take Anna. I couldn’t let that happen. Rose narrowed her eyes.

You’re admitting you killed your husband? Martha stayed silent. You planned everything pretending to take your daughter away as an alibi, buying materials to redo the floor that same night. This wasn’t rage.

It was calculated. He drove me mad, Martha whispered. I felt like a ghost.

If I hadn’t struck first, I would have disappeared. Rose’s voice turned cold. You could have divorced him.

You could have reported him. But instead, you chose murder and buried him under the very floor where your daughter plays every morning. Martha clenched her fists, her voice sharp, I don’t regret it.

In the digital forensics room, technician Stephen Harris sat by the computer, eyes fixed on the screen. A short video clip had just been extracted from the damaged phone. Only 38 seconds long but it was a priceless piece of evidence.

Mark and Richard stood behind him. The screen displayed nighttime footage seemingly from an internal camera placed high in the corner of the kitchen. In the video, Julian stood facing Martha, holding a small suitcase.

Martha, I’m leaving. My lawyer will contact you in the morning, he said clearly. You’re not going anywhere, Martha replied, her voice low.

I don’t want Anna to see this. Don’t make things worse. Julian turned away.

Martha picked up an object it appeared to be a cast iron pan and rushed toward him from behind. The video stopped at that exact moment. Stephen’s voice trembled.

That’s all. That’s the whole clip. Mark clenched his fists.

We have everything we need. Now, we wait for trial. That night, Carol held Anna in her arms.

The child had fallen asleep after a nightmare, her hair soaked in cold sweat. Carol whispered, your dad will have his voice heard. And you, you will live as a child again, not as a witness to a crime.

Outside, rain began to fall light, but cold. And beneath the floor tiles that had been removed, the kitchen now sat empty but the memory of death remained, soaked into every tile, every seam of grout, like the last breath of a man betrayed. The official preliminary hearing took place in the regional courthouse of the state of Illinois.

Inside, the air was so heavy it felt suffocating. Martha Grant was brought in wearing a gray prison uniform, her hair no longer neatly styled like on the first day. Her eyes still held a trace of defiance, but also revealed fatigue and strain.

On the opposite side was prosecutor Rose Martin, face sharp and cold as usual. Beside her sat detective Mark Rivers and investigator Richard Monroe. On the public benches, Carol mother of the victim Julian sat quietly, clutching the hand of her granddaughter Anna, who sat obediently beside her.

Rose began calmly, Mrs. Martha, today we are giving you the opportunity to state the full truth. This is your final chance to explain your actions. If not, the evidence is sufficient to proceed with a charge of first-degree murder.