The world blurred past the car window, a frantic, desperate streak of suburban lights. My hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles white, as Alexis's sobs tore through the air beside me. She was a broken sound, a raw, ragged wail that threatened to unravel my own carefully constructed dam of grief. I drove faster, pushing the needle towards seventy, as if sheer speed could outrun the horror we were leaving behind.

"I can't believe this!" Alexis choked out, her voice hoarse, "Who would do this to her?! WHO!?"

My jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in my cheek. "I... I don't know," I muttered, the words thick with a rage I couldn't contain. The image of the white blanket, the ruby-red heels poking out from beneath it—my mother. Dead. It seared behind my eyelids.

We screeched to a halt in the driveway, bathed in the pulsating red and blue glow of police lights. Paramedics, detectives, a grim tableau. I didn't wait. I flung the car door open, leaving Alexis to crumple in the passenger seat, too weak to face the nightmare. An officer tried to stop me, but the words were a burning brand on my tongue: "It's my mother."

He stepped back, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. I barged through the door, my gaze fixed on that still form in the living room. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens. A man in a black and white suit appeared beside me, a detective. He spoke of stab wounds, a struggle, blood that wasn't hers. But his words were a distant hum against the thunder of my own thoughts. My mother was a fighter. Always. And then, it hit me: 'Son.' A word I'd never hear from her again. Or from him.