It wasn’t the usual scent of expensive candles and polish.

It smelled like freshly broken drywall and splintered wood.

My heart began to race as we moved deeper into the foyer.

“Stay behind us, ma’am,” the second officer said.

We followed them slowly toward the curved staircase.

A trail of muddy footprints led up the white carpet of the stairs.

From somewhere upstairs, I heard a dull, scraping sound.

It sounded like metal dragging across hardwood.

We reached the top landing, our footsteps muffled by the heavy carpet.

The door to Ethan’s nursery was at the end of the hall.

The door frame was cracked, as if it had been kicked open with force.

I pushed my wheelchair forward, ignoring Thomas’s warning hand on my shoulder.

Through the open doorway, the bright pastel colors of the nursery were visible.

And then I saw the floor.

The white wooden crib, which Thomas had spent three weekends assembling, was chopped into splintered kindling.

The hand-carved slats lay scattered across the gray rug like broken bones.

The mobile of knitted clouds and stars, a gift from Laura, had been ripped from the ceiling and trampled into the floorboards.