The Riverbank
Johnny wasn't supposed to be near the river that morning.
He'd left the house before sunrise, headphones in, hood up, pretending he was going for a run. He hadn't slept. None of them had, not really. Jinny's phone had gone straight to voicemail all night.
The river was low for the season. Mud banks exposed. Shopping carts half-submerged. A bicycle frame rusting near the reeds.
He saw the coat first.
It was tangled in the brush like someone had thrown it there. Dark wool. Familiar. He knew that coat. He'd teased her about it last winter, said it made her look like she was borrowing something from their mother's closet.
He stepped closer.
There's a moment before your brain lets you understand what you're seeing. It protects you. It edits.
At first he thought it was driftwood caught in the shallows.
Then he saw her hand.
The river moved around her like she was just another obstacle.
Johnny stopped breathing.
He didn't scream. That would have meant accepting it.
He stepped into the water without realizing he'd moved. Cold soaked through his shoes. Mud sucked at his steps. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her.
Her hair fanned across the surface. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth slightly open like she'd fallen asleep mid-sentence.
"Jinny," he said. Once. Quiet.
The river kept moving.
His hands shook so badly he dropped his phone twice before he managed to call emergency services.
When they pulled him back onto the bank, he fought them. Not violently. Just desperately. As if they were interrupting something private between siblings.
The Notification
Robby was at work when the police came.
Two officers. Neutral expressions. Hats in their hands.
He knew before they spoke.
There is a specific look people wear when they are about to dismantle your life.
"Leo Roberto Ross?"
He nodded.
"Sir, we need you to come with us."
He didn't ask why. He didn't need to.
At the hospital, Johnny was wrapped in a grey blanket, staring at nothing. Mud still crusted on his jeans. When Robby tried to speak, nothing came out. His throat closed.
"She jumped," Johnny whispered. "From the bridge."
The words didn't sound real.
An officer gently asked about next of kin. About medical history. About her husband.
Robby felt something twist in his chest when Pietro's name was mentioned.
Detective Ron Silvester
Detective Ron Silvester didn't believe in clean suicides.
He stood on the bridge two days later, looking over the railing. The drop was high enough. The water deep enough. It could pass.
But something in his gut didn't sit right.
He'd already spoken to Johnny. Shock. Clear trauma. No inconsistencies.
He'd spoken to Robby. Protective. Controlled anger.
Then he met Pietro David Giovani.
Pietro cried easily. Too easily. Red eyes. Trembling hands. He spoke about Jinny like she was porcelain.
"She was fragile," Pietro said. "Depression. She struggled for years. I tried to help her."
Ron watched his hands.
No visible injuries. No scratches. No defensive marks.
"Were you home the night she died?"
"Yes. She left after an argument. I thought she needed space."
"What was the argument about?"
Silence.
"Nothing serious."
Ron had been a detective long enough to know that "nothing serious" often meant everything.
The autopsy confirmed drowning. No drugs in her system. No alcohol. Time of death estimated between 2:30 and 3:30 a.m.
But there were other things.
Old fractures healed improperly. Rib damage consistent with past trauma. Scar tissue.
And recent bruising along her upper arms.
Grip marks.
Ron leaned back in his chair when he saw the photos.
Suicide, maybe.
But not alone.
He requested phone records. Financial records. Neighbors' statements. Any prior domestic disturbance calls.
Three neighbors reported shouting. One mentioned "things breaking."
No formal complaints.
Ron added Pietro's name to the board.
Not as a grieving husband.
As a person of interest.