SAMANTHA
Sam sat in Jude's driveway with the engine off, staring at the house she'd been to a hundred times.
Nothing had changed. Same red mailbox. Same crooked shutter on the second floor. Same ugly garden gnome Jude's mom had given him as a joke that he'd never had the heart to throw away.
She took a long drink from her water bottle, trying to steady her breathing.
Across the street, kids were playing basketball, their shouts echoing in the quiet neighborhood.
Everything looked so normal.
Except the man inside that house was now a murder suspect. And she was about to walk in there alone.
She rang the bell. Waited.
Nothing.
Rang again.
Still nothing.
She pulled out her phone to call him—then stopped.
Jude's motorcycle was in the driveway. He was home.
So why wasn't he answering?
Her hand went to the doorknob, expecting it to be locked.
It turned.
The door swung open.
Sam's pulse kicked up. She should leave. Call for backup. This was already crossing a line.
Instead, she stepped inside.
The air felt stagnant, heavy. Like the house was holding its breath.
Jude sat in the living room, legs crossed, a drink in his hand.
He didn't stand. Didn't smile. Just watched her with an expression she had never seen before.
Predatory. Calculating.
"Why are you here?" He rubbed his palm down his face.
The house was spotless. Not a dish in the sink, not a magazine out of place. And underneath it all, the sharp smell of bleach—recent, overpowering.
Like he'd been cleaning. Thoroughly.
The refrigerator gently hummed in the corner. She glanced around the room. Her eyes rested on the grandfather clock ticking away.
"Jude…what really happened?" she asked softly.
"The evidence against you is too damning. I… I don't know what to think right now".
He stared at her but didn't say a word. He shook his head instead. Dropping the glass on the table, he leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him.
"So, they've already decided", he mused.
She clenched her fist.
"There is evidence."
He tilted his head to the side. "Do you believe it?".
Her lips suddenly felt dry. He chuckled. His voice was flat, devoid of the warmth that usually defined him.
Sam's eyes drifted to the bookshelf behind him—the same one she had helped him assemble two summers ago. They had laughed over a bottle of wine when the middle shelf ended up crooked.
That shelf now held a row of true crime novels she'd never noticed before.
And a framed photo from the beach. The four of them—Jude, Elena, Alex, Sam. They all looked so happy and carefree. Grinning wildly at the camera.
The glass was cracked. A jagged line running right through Alex's face.
"What do you see when you look at me right now?".
She opened her mouth and closed it like a fish out of water.
"Elena"… he started. "She used to bite her lips when she was thinking," he continued. "Just like you're doing now".
The familiarity in his voice made her skin crawl.
"Elena texted me goodnight every night for three years," Jude said, staring into his glass. "Even after we broke up. Even after the restraining order". He looked up at Sam. "She always sent the same message. 'Goodnight. Stay safe.'"
Sam's throat tightened.
"The night she died," Jude continued, "nothing. I waited. Checked my phone a dozen times. But she never sent it."
"Maybe she was tired of reaching out to you," Sam said. "Maybe she was finally moving on."
Jude's jaw tightened. "Or maybe she was already dead by 9 PM, and whoever killed her didn't know about our routine."
The implication hung in the air between them.
"The medical examiner puts time of death between 11 PM and 1 AM," Sam said carefully.
"Then they're wrong."
Sam stood abruptly. "I have to go."
"Of course you do." Jude picked up his drink and downed it in one swallow. "Wouldn't want to be seen fraternizing with the enemy."
"You're not—" She stopped herself. "Goodbye, Jude."
She walked out before he could respond.
Behind her, she heard glass shatter against a wall.
Outside, she paused and looked back. She got into her car and realized she was trembling.
A tear slid down her cheeks. She rested her head on the steering. This makes no sense. Not at all.
She wiped her tears and blew her nose.
Sam drove home on autopilot, Jude's words echoing in her head.
She texted me goodnight every night. The night she died....nothing.
She pulled into her building's parking garage and sat there for a moment, engine off, trying to process.
Her phone buzzed. Alex.
How'd it go?
She called him instead of texting. "Can you come over? I need to talk this through."
"Already on my way," he said. "Picked up Thai food. You eaten today?"
She hadn't.
Twenty minutes later, they sat at her kitchen table, takeout containers between them. Sam had barely touched her food.
"He said Elena always texted him goodnight," Sam said. "Every night. Even after they broke up."
Alex paused mid-bite. "Okay..."
"The night she died, she didn't. No text."
"Sam, they'd broken up. She had a restraining order against him. Maybe she was finally—"
"That's what I said. But he thinks it means she was already dead by 9 PM. Before she would've sent the text."
Alex set down his fork. "The ME's report says she died between 11 PM and 1 AM."
"I know."
"So either Jude's lying, or—"
"Or the timeline's wrong." Sam pulled up the case file on her laptop. "Look. Neighbor says he saw Jude leaving at 2 AM. Ballistics put time of death around midnight based on body temp. But what if...what if the evidence is pointing to the wrong window?"
Alex was quiet, staring at the screen.
"Sam," he said carefully. "You know what you're suggesting, right? If the timeline's wrong, if Jude's telling the truth about the text... it means someone else killed her. Someone who didn't know about the goodnight messages."
"I know."
"It means you are building a case against the wrong person."
Sam pressed her fingers to her temples. "Or Jude's manipulating me. Using our history to make me doubt the evidence."
"Which is more likely?" Alex asked gently.
She wanted to say Jude was guilty. That the evidence was solid. That she could trust the system.
But doubt had already taken root.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Alex reached across the table and took her hand.
"Whatever you decide, I'm here. Okay?"
She nodded, grateful.
Her phone rang, shattering the moment.
Unknown number.
She almost didn't answer.
Sam answered. "Samantha Eric speaking."
"Why isn't he in custody yet?"
The voice was sharp, female, unfamiliar.
"I'm sorry, who's this?"
"Maya Harnold. Elena's sister". A bitter laugh. "I saw the news. There's a warrant out for Jude Miller. So why is he still walking around free?"
Sam's stomach dropped. "Ms. Harnold, I know this is—
"Do you? Do you know what it's like to watch your sister's murderer on the news, getting to go home, getting to sleep in his own bed, while she's—" Her voice broke. "You're protecting him. Because he's your friend."
"That's not—"
"I'm coming to your office tomorrow. Nine AM. And I want answers."
The line went dead.
Sam lowered the phone slowly.
Alex was watching her. "Who was that?"
"Elena's sister."
"Shit."
"Yeah." Sam rubbed her face. "She thinks I'm protecting Jude."
"Are you?"
The question hung between them.
"I don't know," Sam said quietly. "I don't know anything anymore."
Alex squeezed her hand but said nothing.
Outside her window, the city hummed with evening traffic. People going home. Living normal lives.
Sam looked at the case file still open on her laptop—Elena's smiling face in the victim photo.
I'm sorry, she thought. I don't know how to help you.