ADAN
Renee walked into the room, a box cradled in her hands. "This was delivered to you," she said, handing it over.
Exhausted from a long day, I grabbed my nail cutter from the table, too drained to look for scissors, and used it to tear through the tape sealing the package.
When the flaps popped open, my breath caught in my throat. What lay inside was beyond anything I could have expected—a collection of photographs that immediately sent a chill through my veins.
They were images from the night Axelle was buried.
Though the pictures were dim, shadowy, and grainy, their content was unmistakable. In one frame, I saw two silhouettes: John, and Axelle's lifeless form.
The sight was haunting.
Despite the darkness in the photos, there was no mistaking Axelle's figure. I could recognize her anywhere, at any time, without question.
