Chapter 2Not My Husband In My Bed

"I... I need to report a crime. There's a... a hand. In my house. I thought it was a prank, but it’s real. It’s a real hand."

The words felt absurd as they left my mouth. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering, my tongue twisting over the syllables.

The operator remained chillingly calm. She told me to stay where I was and not to touch anything. "Officers are on their way, Ma'am. Please stay on the line."

When I hung up, the silence of the house felt predatory. Every shadow in the hallway seemed to stretch, reaching for me. I managed to crawl away from the storage room, but my eyes kept darting back to the door, terrified that something—or someone—would emerge.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at a box of tissues on the coffee table, forcing myself to breathe. Minutes stretched into hours. Under any other circumstances, I’d be excitedly waiting for Jamie’s flight to land. Now, I was just waiting for a coroner.

Finally, the doorbell rang. I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat.

"Police! Open up!"

I practically fell toward the door to let them in. Two officers entered—a man and a woman, both looking worn down by the city. The female officer, whose badge read Briggs, took in the state of the living room with a practiced eye. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.

"You’re Naomi Brooks, the caller?"

I nodded frantically, gesturing toward the back of the house. The male officer was already putting on latex gloves. "Where is it?"

"The storage room," I whispered, my voice cracking.

As the male officer walked toward the back, Detective Briggs tried to soothe me. "Try to stay calm, Naomi. Like you said, these prank companies are getting incredibly realistic these days. We’ve had calls about 'bodies' that turned out to be high-end silicone props. It happens more often than you'd think."

But her attempt at comfort died the moment her partner spoke.

"It’s not a prop," he said, his voice grim. "This is biological. We’ve got a real severed limb here."

A cold shiver raced down my spine. I watched him bag the hand and the box as evidence. He turned to me, his expression suddenly very sharp.

"Did you touch this at any point, Mrs. Brooks?"

"No," I stammered. "The moment I realized... the smell... I called you immediately."

He nodded and stepped away to radio for backup. Briggs led me to the kitchen table. "Okay, Naomi. Deep breaths. Tell me everything. How did this get into your house?"

I gave her the timeline—the date night, the gift, Jamie's departure. As I spoke, her expression grew more somber.

"You said your husband gave this to you on April 1st? April Fool's Day?"

"Yes. He loves pranks. He’d never miss a chance like that."

"And when did he leave for his trip?"

"The next morning. April 2nd."

The two officers exchanged a look. A leaden weight settled in the pit of my stomach.

"Is... is there a problem?" I asked.

Briggs didn't answer directly. She asked me to point out exactly where the box had been sitting. They took photos, dusted for prints, and told me not to clean anything. During the chaos, the male officer took a call. He kept his voice low, but I caught fragments: "...surveillance... nothing... no contact yet..."

When he hung up, he looked directly at me.

"Naomi," he said. "Are you absolutely certain your husband brought that box home on the night of the 1st?"

"Of course," I said, confused. "We had dinner. He gave it to me. I called him a child. I remember every second of it."

Detective Briggs closed her notepad. "Naomi, our team just checked the cloud-based security footage for your street and your smart-doorbell. According to the logs for April 1st... nobody entered or exited this house all evening. Including your husband."

My brain felt like it had been hit by a freight train. "That’s impossible! Jamie was here! He lives here! He comes home every single day. He brings groceries, he talks to the neighbors—everyone knows him!"