I stood in the doorway, the cool night air blowing past me into the ruined kitchen.

Vance walked back over to me, his face pale but determined.

“Are you going to be okay, Ms. Vance?” he asked, then corrected himself. “Ms. Clara?”

“I will be,” I said. “Thank you, Officer.”

“An investigator will be here in the morning to take your formal statement,” Vance said.

“I will be ready,” I said.

I watched as the cruisers slowly backed down my long, winding driveway.

The red and blue lights faded into the dark pine trees, leaving only the quiet of the forest.

I closed the front door and locked the heavy deadbolt.

The silence of the house settled over me like a heavy blanket.

I walked back into the kitchen, the soles of my shoes sticking to the floor.

The smell of spilled vinegar and iron was thick in the air.

I looked at the mess on the quartz island.

The crustless quiche, cold and untouched, sat in its ceramic dish.

It was a recipe built on precision, on controlling every variable.