She began pulling open the drawers, her movements quick and frantic.

She was looking for the journal.

She was looking for the paper trail she thought I had left behind.

Leo tapped his fingers on the hospital bedside table, then quickly dialed the local precinct.

“This is Leo Sullivan,” he said into his own phone. “My mother is currently inside my apartment at 412 Grand Avenue. She does not have permission to be there.”

He gave the officer the apartment number and details.

“She is destroying evidence related to the case,” Leo said, his voice shaking slightly.

He hung up and we watched the screen in silence.

Josephine was throwing old utilities bills onto the carpet.

She looked older under the harsh fluorescent light of our living room.

Her perfect hair was slightly damp from the rain.

Ten minutes passed.

Then, two police officers appeared in the doorway of our apartment.

Josephine froze, a stack of folders in her hands.

Even through the pixelated feed, I could see her posture stiffen.

She did not argue.

She set the papers down on the desk and slowly held out her wrists.