The Perfect Alibi

Prologue

I shouldn't have stepped into that room.

The door barely cracked open, but enough to let the chill cut through the air. The scent—blood, stale and familiar—clung to my skin before I even saw it. But there was something else, too, something older. Something that shouldn't have been in a room like this.

But I went in anyway.

The body hit me first, before my eyes could even register it. I felt it, a weight in my chest, a scream that wasn't mine echoing in the pit of my stomach. There was no denying it.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

His limbs—twisted. Not just bent, but broken, cracked at angles that weren't meant for human bones. His eyes, wide and empty, stared at me—through me—as if he was still seeing everything, still begging for help. But there was no sound, no air. Just the silence. And the blood.

Too much of it. It pooled beneath him like a terrible promise, creeping, spreading, like it knew where to go, dragging me deeper into its grip. I didn't want to move, didn't want to get closer, but my feet—why was I moving toward it?

My shoes stuck to the floor, the warmth seeping through the soles. It was still warm.

It didn't feel real. It didn't feel like something that could happen to me. Not like this. Not now.

But the blood on my hands—I didn't even notice when it got there. Thick, sticky, coating me like it belonged. I looked down at my palms, the crimson smearing across my fingers, creeping up my wrists. The heat from it—it shouldn't have been there. It shouldn't feel like this.

A voice—muffled, distant—cut through my haze. Officers, talking, but I couldn't hear them. Couldn't understand them. Their words were as far away as my own thoughts.

"Eve."

That voice. Detective Vaughn.

I wanted to turn. Wanted to say something. Anything. But I couldn't. The words were stuck, caught in my throat. I couldn't move. Couldn't look at him. Not now.

His footsteps moved closer. I could feel his presence, sharp, pressing down on me. But the room felt like it was caving in. The edges of it, the smell, the blood—it was all too much.

"Eve." His voice, harder this time. "What happened here?"

What happened?

What did happen?

I wanted to scream, to tell him I didn't know, but I didn't trust the sound of my own voice. What if I was lying? What if I did this?

The body, the blood—it was all too familiar. And that's what terrified me. How could I forget this? How could I forget him?

Another voice—this one unfamiliar—rang out behind me. "Call the ambulance. No, wait... call the morgue."

A dead body. That's what they said. A body.

Like it wasn't him. Like it wasn't real.

But it was. And the blood on my hands—why was it still warm?

I took a step back, but it was like I wasn't in control. Like I was moving, but not by choice. I couldn't stop. I couldn't breathe.

My feet dragged me further away. Further from him. From the body. From everything. But my mind... my mind wouldn't let me go. It was stuck in that room. With him.

And then came the question.

It sliced through the chaos like a blade, cold and clean. "What if I did it?"

The air seemed to thicken, choking me. What if I did it? I couldn't remember. But what if I did?

A sharp voice broke through, not far from me. "We have a problem."

The words didn't sink in at first. My body was numb, my head spinning.

A problem. What problem?

I blinked, my gaze falling to the blood-streaked hands again. My breath caught. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to know.

But maybe—I had to know.

I had to know what happened.

Did I do this?

The officers were staring at me now, their eyes like sharp knives, digging into me, searching for something. Searching for answers I didn't have.

But something was breaking inside me. Because I wasn't sure anymore.

The silence suffocated me. My heart hammered in my chest, and all I could hear was the question.

What if I did it?

And that's when I realized—I couldn't even trust myself.