Ken didn't move.
He couldn't.
The photograph lay in his trembling hands, and the world had stopped making sense. His juice was still spreading across the kitchen floor in a slow amber puddle. His bag was still hanging off his shoulder. His heart was still beating—too fast, too loud, like it was trying to break out of his chest.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe.
He couldn't.
He sank onto the nearest chair, the photograph still clutched in his fingers. His eyes burned. His throat felt like someone had filled it with sand.
There are more.
He looked down at the floor. Three photographs. Three pieces of evidence that his world might be cracking apart.
He picked them up one by one, spreading them on the kitchen counter like a prosecutor laying out a case.
