I thought my husband was the victim of a home invasion, until the suspect in handcuffs screamed a terrifying question across our lawn.

Mark's hand fell slowly back onto the white blanket.

"I don't know who that is, Laura," he said, looking past me toward Detective Miller. "I told the patrol officers already. I was sitting at the kitchen island working on the East Side drainage project when that man kicked open my side door. He was screaming at me, calling me names I've never heard before."

"He said you had his daughter's phone," Miller noted dryly, stepping around the bed. "Your son, Ethan, told our officers that the intruder was holding your cell phone when he ran downstairs."

"My phone fell under the couch when he knocked me down!" Mark snapped, a flash of defensive anger breaking through his exhausted tone. "He picked it up off the floor while I was trying to get my breath back. I don't know what he was looking at! He's a lunatic!"

I stared at my husband's face. We had met at a coffee shop eight years ago. We had bought our house together. We had picked out the wallpaper for Ethan's nursery. I knew every line on his forehead, every tone of his voice when he was tired, happy, or stressed.

But sitting in that hospital bed, he sounded like a man rehearsing a script.

"Mark," I whispered. "Why did he yell that at me on the lawn?"

Mark looked up at me, his eyes wide and wet. "Because he's out of his mind, Laura! He's a grieving father who got some fake letter from a sick prankster and decided to ruin our lives!"

Detective Miller pulled a clear plastic evidence bag from her pocket. Inside was a small black memory card, no bigger than a thumbnail.

"When we searched Arthur Pendelton's jacket, we found this," Miller said smoothly. "Arthur says he found it tucked into the frame of your garage door while he was waiting for you to come home from work."

Mark's eyes darted toward the plastic bag, his pupils dilating instantly.

"What is that?" I asked.

"We don't know yet," Miller replied. "Our forensics team is analyzing it right now. But Mr. Bennett... if there's something you want to tell us before we open those files, now is the time."

Mark swallowed hard. A bead of sweat formed at his hairline, dripping down into the white bandage above his brow.

"I want my lawyer," Mark said quietly, his voice dropping into a flat, cold register I had never heard him use before.

The air in the room felt instantly thin.

Detective Miller nodded once, entirely unbothered. "Understood. I'll inform the officers outside. Mrs. Bennett, you should take your son home."

I stood frozen at the foot of the bed. Mark didn't look up at me. He stared straight ahead at the blank television screen mounted on the wall.