The living room walls were papered in an aggressive shade of red, offset by black carpets that seemed to attract dust like magnets. Sofas and armchairs upholstered in dark burgundy suede surrounded a glass coffee table, the centerpiece of a room that felt more like a stage set than a home. Heavy burgundy curtains, their vibrancy dulled by a film of dust, framed the windows. The kitchen, done up in harsh tones of red and black, boasted the house's only large window – a constant source of neighborhood gossip for those inclined to eavesdrop.

The second floor housed three bedrooms. The master bedroom, shared by Jeffrey and Mary, echoed the garish tones of the living room below. Next was Rose's room, a stark contrast with its pink wallpaper, fluffy white carpet, and oversized bed. It was the only truly clean space in the house, meticulously maintained by Rose herself. Finally, there was a half-empty guest room, its large wardrobe bursting with clothes, and a bed where Jeffrey often found himself sleeping after yet another argument with Mary.

As Jeffrey entered the house, the air felt thick with grief. After Larsen's call, he had broken the devastating news to his wife, but Mary couldn't find the strength to accompany him to the crime scene. A chill permeated the house, all the windows thrown open as if trying to air out the suffocating sorrow. Mary, still clad in her purple pajamas, sat huddled on the living room floor, her back against the sofa as she cried, hugging her knees to her chest. At the sound of Jeffrey's entrance, she looked up, her face a mask of anguish.

"You have to find who did this," she cried out, her voice raw and breaking. "You have to find that bastard, or I'll never forgive you!" In a surge of emotion, she launched herself at Jeffrey, her fists pounding against his chest as sobs wracked her body.

"Pull yourself together, Mary," Jeffrey snapped, his voice rising as he grabbed her wrists to stop the onslaught. "This hysteria won't help anything. I already know what needs to be done!"

Mary's sobs subsided into a low keening as she slowly slid to the floor, her strength seeming to leave her all at once.

Jeffrey knelt beside his wife, gathering her into his arms. He made fervent promises to punish the one responsible, swearing he'd see justice done no matter the cost. Mary clung to him, suddenly seeming small and fragile. As he held her, Jeffrey's gaze drifted to the coffee table where Rose's photos stood in silent testament to a life cut short.

There was Rose as a toddler, beaming at the camera in a pink dress, clutching a white stuffed rabbit in the summer sunshine. Another showed her as a teenager, flanked by her parents in white shirts, their kisses planted on either of her cheeks as she stood before their house in a green T-shirt. The final photo captured Rose at her high school graduation, radiant in a blue dress, a bouquet of red roses in her arms.

The reality of their loss struck Jeffrey anew, a pain so sharp it seemed to physically wound him…

As the day wore on, Mary refused all food, her grief a palpable presence in the house. When night fell, sleep eluded her. She wandered from room to room like a restless spirit, barely acknowledging Jeffrey's attempts to comfort her. It was only as dawn began to break that exhaustion finally claimed her, and she collapsed onto Rose's bed, sinking into a fitful slumber.

The following day, Nick Larsen's voice crackled over the phone line, requesting Jeffrey's presence at the station. There was news. Jeffrey's heart leapt, hope warring with dread as he imagined what information the detectives might have uncovered. He dressed hurriedly, his mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps they had a suspect, or some crucial piece of evidence had come to light. Within half an hour, he was striding through the doors of the police station, his anticipation palpable.