Chapter 4

The police interrogation room was a small, windowless box, painted a shade of institutional beige that seemed designed to absorb all hope. I sat across a metal table from two detectives, my arm in a heavy plaster cast, a throbbing headache pounding a relentless rhythm behind my eyes. I recounted the events of the fall with a voice that felt strangely detached from my own body, a narrator telling a story about someone else's life.

When the officers visited our home later that day, Liam was the very picture of the concerned, cooperative husband. He was calm, articulate, and deeply regretful.

He led them to his study, a room that served as the nerve center of our home, and gestured to a sleek, wall-mounted panel of touchscreens. "This is the control center for our smart home security system," he explained, his tone laced with a carefully measured dose of frustration. "As you can see from the system logs, officers, the entire network was undergoing a mandatory cloud software update pushed by the manufacturer during that exact time frame. It's a terrible, unforeseeable coincidence, but all indoor cameras and audio recorders were temporarily offline for the duration of the patch. It's a significant security flaw, and you can be sure I'll be taking it up with the company."

He tapped the screen, and a complex diagnostic report filled the display, filled with technical jargon and timestamps that neatly corroborated his story.

Then, he produced a thick, leather-bound file. It was a freshly updated and comprehensive psychiatric evaluation for Seraphina, signed by one of the most respected therapists in the city-a therapist, I knew, who was on Liam's payroll. He read a highlighted passage aloud. "The patient, Seraphina Dubois, suffers from severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which can manifest in fugue states and unconscious aggressive actions when she feels threatened or triggered. It is medically plausible that any physical contact during a moment of high stress could be an involuntary, defensive reflex rather than a malicious act."

Against the impenetrable backdrop of irrefutable, cold technology and the weight of professional medical opinion, my accusations began to sound hysterical, emotional, unfounded. The electronic eyes and ears of our home, the very systems designed to provide truth and security, had all, by a one-in-a-million chance, gone silent for the woman who had tried to murder me.

Justice was not just blind; it had been systematically, technologically, and expertly silenced by the man who had sworn in front of God and our families to love, honor, and protect me. He stood there, the perfect, grieving husband, having just orchestrated the perfect crime.