“Daddy’s not dead. He’s under the floor,” the little girl said.

That’s when the police started digging.

Chief Mark Rivers reviewed the incident report just handed to him.

Name of the person who filed the report: Marta Grant.
Report details: Missing husband. No trace. No further information.

But what really caught his attention was that Marta hadn’t come to the station herself. It was her neighbor, Mrs. Francis Davis, who showed up—with a four-year-old girl tightly hugging a teddy bear. Her face was pale, and she refused to go near anyone.

“She said something strange,” Francis said, clearly anxious. “You need to hear it.”

Mark sat down, his expression softening as he looked at the child.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Anna,” the girl replied softly.

“Do you know where your daddy went?” Mark asked gently.

Anna didn’t answer at first. She looked up, eyes trembling, then spoke slowly.

“Daddy’s under the kitchen floor.”

The room suddenly felt cold. Mark looked at Francis, whose face had gone white. A young officer coughed quietly, unnerved.

“What did you say?” Mark asked again, more serious now.

“Daddy’s under the kitchen floor,” Anna repeated. “Where the tiles are lighter. He’s really cold now.”

The room fell silent.

Mark immediately called Lt. Richard Monroe.

“Bring Martha Grant to the station. Get a team ready. I want the house checked within the hour.”

Less than 30 minutes later, Martha arrived. Calm. She wore a white blouse and black pants. Her hair was neatly done. She didn’t look worried.

“I told you,” she said softly, “Julian sometimes disappears for days without telling anyone. He’s always been like that.”

“Didn’t you think something was wrong?” Mark asked.

“No,” Martha replied. “I thought he’d come back like always.”

“But a neighbor said they heard shouting and a loud noise that night,” Richard added.

Martha sighed.

“Yes, we fought. But that’s normal for couples, right?”

Mark nodded. “Did you change the tiles in the kitchen?”

Martha froze briefly.

“Yes. There was mold. I replaced them.”

“You did it yourself?” Mark asked, surprised.

“Yes. I watched a tutorial online.”

Richard pulled out a USB.

“Your neighbor, Mr. Morgan, has CCTV. We saw you carrying Anna out of the house around 3:00 AM. When you came back, you had a bag with tools. How do you explain that?”

“I didn’t want Ana breathing in mold,” Martha replied. “So I brought her to a friend’s place. I just wanted to fix up the house.”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

“But there are no receipts for the materials. No workers. You didn’t tell anyone about any repairs. And your daughter says her dad is under the kitchen floor. Sounds suspicious.”

Martha’s voice rose.

“Are you saying I killed my husband?!”

Mark stayed calm.

“We’re not accusing. We’re just asking. But your answers don’t match up.”

He turned to Richard.

“You’re an investigator, but do you know what it’s like to live in a toxic relationship? Do you know that Julian used to hurt me?”

“Do you have evidence?” Mark asked. “Medical reports? Police complaints?”

Martha was silent for a few seconds.

“I never went to the hospital. I just endured it.”

Richard leaned toward Mark and whispered.

“We need an emergency search warrant. The cement smells fresh. She’s hiding something.”

Mark nodded.

“Prepare the paperwork. I want the forensics team there by morning.”

The next day, police arrived at the small house at the end of Maplewood Street. Lisa Parker, a seasoned forensic expert, knelt down and smelled the new tiles.

“The cement is still fresh. Something’s buried under here,” she said, pointing to a lighter-colored section of the floor.

They started drilling.

Martha sat in the living room, guarded by two officers. Anna wasn’t there. Francis had taken her to her grandmother’s house.

Lisa pointed to the tiles.

“Start here. Carefully.”

The drill roared through the floor. After about 30 minutes, the top layer was removed. Beneath the mortar, a piece of dark cloth appeared.

“Stop,” Lisa said. “Use your hands from here.”

Wearing gloves, they carefully scraped away the cement.

Then a young officer screamed.

“Oh my God… it’s a foot.”

Pale. Cold. Blue.

Mark stepped forward. He stared quietly. Then looked at Martha.

“Do you have anything to say?”

Martha didn’t answer. She just turned away.

Lisa spoke gravely.

“It’s a man. Whole body. Wrapped in cloth. Dried blood on the head. Looks like he was hit with something hard.”

Richard took a photo, then picked up a small object near the body—a cracked phone.

“There may still be data,” he said.

“Send it to the tech team,” Mark replied.

One officer ran outside and threw up. Lisa remained calm.

“Not everyone’s used to seeing bodies,” she whispered.

Mark examined the body. Eyes open. Fist clenched. Signs of struggle before death.

He looked at the house. The curtains moved. A cold breeze swept in.

“This wasn’t just a disappearance. This was murder.”

He turned to Richard.

“Arrest Martha Grant. Charge her under Section 142. Suspected murder and concealment of a corpse.”

Richard stepped forward and read her rights.

“Martha Grant, you are under arrest for suspected murder. You have the right to remain silent.”

Martha smiled faintly.

“Do you know how many years I’ve stayed silent?”

Mark replied coolly.

“Then there’s no reason to stay silent any longer.”

The handcuffs clicked. Martha didn’t resist. She looked down at the hole in the floor—where her husband’s body had been found. Her face showed no emotion.

On the way back to the station, Richard looked in the rearview mirror. Martha sat silently, like a statue. He wondered… Some people kill out of rage. But people like Martha? It was all calculated.

At the precinct, Mark called an emergency meeting. The forensic team, tech team, and Prosecutor Rose Martin were present.

Lisa was the first to speak.

“Julian Grant died from a blow to the back of the head. No defensive wounds. No blood under the tiles. He was killed first—then buried.”

Mark nodded.

“No doubt. This was planned. Premeditated murder.”

Rose folded her arms.

“But we need motive, timeline, and solid physical evidence. Anna’s testimony helps, but she’s just a child. We need more.”

Steven Harris, a young tech officer, stood up.

“We recovered some data from the broken phone. Only a few messages survived. Look.”

He displayed the messages between Julian and Martha:

Julian: “I can’t do this anymore. I’m filing for divorce next week.”
Martha: “If you leave me, you’ll disappear.”
Julian: “Don’t be like that. Think of Anna.”
Martha: “Anna will be fine. We’re better off without you.”

The room went quiet.

Rose frowned.

“That’s motive.”

Mark nodded to Richard.

“Send the team back to her house. Look for property papers, loans—anything that shows financial motive.”

Two hours later, Richard returned with a box of documents.

“Here’s the land title. Julian was the sole owner. We found evidence that Martha tried to transfer it to her name by claiming Julian was missing.”

He showed more papers—loan receipts.

“Martha borrowed around $240,000 from Julian. Claimed it was for a business. Never paid it back.”

Mark looked at Rose.

“Add financial motive to the threats. We have more than enough.”

But it wasn’t over.

Richard added, “We also found secret chats between Martha and a man named Samuel Brooks.”

Mark tapped the desk.

“Bring him in.”

That afternoon, Samuel Brooks was brought to the interrogation room. Tall, neatly dressed, clearly nervous.

“How did you meet Martha Grant?” Rose asked.

“We met in an investment group online. Talked a few times in person.”

“Were you in a relationship?” Mark asked.

Samuel paused.

“I had feelings… but nothing happened. She always said her husband was controlling and cruel.”

“Did she ever talk about hurting him?” Richard asked.

Samuel hesitated.

“Once… she said maybe he’d just disappear one day. But I thought she was just venting.”

Rose leaned forward.

“Do you think Martha is impulsive?”

Samuel shook his head.

“No. She’s more calculated than I thought.”

At Carol’s house—Julian’s mother—Anna sat by the window, quietly drawing. Carol walked over and set down a glass of milk.

“What are you drawing, sweetheart?” she asked gently.

Anna pointed at the paper. It showed a person lying under the tiled floor, with more tiles stacked around.

“Daddy. He’s under here.”

Carol froze, her voice trembling.

“Who told you that?”

“I heard it,” Anna answered softly, still drawing. “Mommy had a big frying pan. Daddy said, ‘Please, don’t.’ Then he stopped talking.”

Carol began to shake, trying to calm herself.

“Then Mommy said, ‘Don’t tell anyone. If you do, our family will fall apart.’”

Carol couldn’t hold back anymore. She covered her face and cried.

Back at the station, Rose Martin spoke firmly in the interrogation room.

“Martha didn’t just kill. She planned everything. She pretended to do home repairs, sent the child away for an alibi, and told her to stay silent. That makes the crime even worse.”

Mark nodded.

“I’ll recommend charges of premeditated murder, concealment of a body, and coercing a minor to stay silent during an investigation.”

Richard agreed.

“She has to face the full weight of the law—not just for Julian, but for Anna. That child lived in silence and fear since she was four.”

Mark added, “Prepare everything for the preliminary hearing. I want every piece of evidence ready. Anna can’t testify officially, but she’s the emotional core of this case.”

He stood up, voice heavy.

“This isn’t just about justice for the dead. We’re trying to save a little girl whose childhood was buried with her father.”

That evening, as they were leaving Carol’s house, Francis asked softly, “Do you think Anna understands what happened?”

Carol shook her head, eyes red from crying.

“She’s just a child. But what’s worse is when children are too young to understand—yet forced to stay silent even when they know the truth.”

Francis teared up.

“I’ve never seen a child like her. So quiet… but you can feel the pain inside. When she said Daddy was cold, I swear I could feel it too.”

Carol held Francis’ hand.

“I’ll protect that child no matter what.”

That night, Mark flipped through the case file again. He stared at a photo of Anna drawing by the window. Her face looked older than her age. He sighed.

“Some people bury a body after a murder,” he said softly.
“But some parents bury their child’s innocence.”

He looked out the station window. The soft lights of Maplewood Street flickered in the distance.

Tomorrow, the case would move formally to prosecution.
The cement might have dried, but the blood remained.
And it would never truly be erased.

---

The Next Morning – 17th Maplewood Street

Under a cold, sharp Illinois sky, the forensic and tactical teams gathered at the Grant house.

The once peaceful home was now surrounded by yellow police tape. Curious neighbors peeked from behind curtains. Police vehicles lined the narrow street.

Inside, lead forensic investigator Lisa Parker adjusted her gloves, eyes sharp, focused on the kitchen floor. She signaled her team to begin drilling into the new tile section—exactly where Anna said her father was.

The saw buzzed. The tiles cracked and shattered. A strong, rotting stench rose from beneath the floor.

Detective Richard Monroe flinched and stepped back.

“Smells like a rotting body,” he muttered.

“Hazmat team, go in,” Lisa instructed calmly.

Technician Thomas Daniels slid a crowbar under the cement. After ten minutes, damp soil was exposed.

“Carefully,” Lisa warned. “We have reason to believe something’s buried here. Only use hands from now on.”

The room was silent except for the scraping of small trowels. Sweat ran down Thomas’ forehead despite the cold.

He suddenly froze, hand trembling.

“I felt something… fabric.”

Lisa quickly knelt and shone a flashlight.

“Wait. Clear the area gently.”

Everyone held their breath.

Minutes passed. Then, the edge of a large sack appeared—dark-colored, wrinkled, stained with what looked like dried blood.

Richard stepped back, instinctively reaching for his gun, even knowing the body was long dead.

“Take a fabric sample. Open the sack,” Lisa ordered, calm but firm.

As they unzipped the sack, the foul smell intensified. Thomas turned and vomited in the corner. Another officer covered his mouth, pale.

Inside the sack: the body of a man. Curled up, crammed into the tight space. Dried blood on his head. A deep wound on the temple, like he was struck with something heavy from behind.

Mark entered and stopped when he saw the face. Decayed, but still recognizable.

“Julian Grant,” he whispered. “The child was right.”

Richard, hands shaking, took photos. He fought back the urge to vomit.

Lisa pulled out a small pouch near the body.

“Another piece of evidence. A broken cellphone.”

“Send it to tech. Get all the data,” Mark instructed.

Lisa nodded.

“He’s been dead three days. No rope marks. Strong blow to the back of the head. Judging from the blood, he was likely standing when struck—then wrapped up and buried.”

Richard took notes.

“No signs of a fight. Death was quick. No wounds on the hands. Left hand clenched—last reflex before unconsciousness.”

Forensic tech James Morgan lifted part of the sack and found a digital watch still on the wrist. The screen was cracked.

“Stopped at 2:42 a.m. Might be the time of death,” Lisa whispered.

“Matches the CCTV showing Martha leaving the house with Anna.”

Mark turned to Richard.

“Call Rose. Tell her we’re ready. This is it.”

---

In Jail

Martha Grant sat on a narrow steel bed, staring at a barred window. No emotion on her face.

Rose Martin entered, holding a thick folder.

“Do you have anything to say?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Martha replied coldly.

“We found Julian’s body. In a sack. With blood, a cellphone, and a watch stopped at the exact time you left the house. With your daughter.”

Martha smiled bitterly.

“Happy now? You were right.”

Rose narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t care about being right. I care about the truth. And you… you have to choose. Are you a murderer—or a victim?”

Martha said nothing. She stood and paced slowly, not looking back.

“He said he’d leave me. Said he’d take Anna. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Rose stared.

“So you admit it? You killed him?”

Still no answer. But Rose continued.

“You planned everything. You pretended to go out with your daughter for an alibi. You bought tools to ‘fix the floor.’ That wasn’t rage. That was cold, calculated murder.”

Martha’s voice was soft.

“He drove me mad. I was a ghost. If I didn’t strike first, I would’ve disappeared.”

Rose’s tone went cold.

“You could’ve left. Filed a complaint. But you chose to kill him—then buried him under the same floor where your daughter plays every day.”

Martha’s voice turned hard.

“I regret nothing.”

---

In the Tech Lab

Technician Steven Harris sat before a computer.

He found a 38-second video from the broken phone—critical evidence.

Mark and Richard stood behind him.

The screen showed CCTV footage from the kitchen.

Julian faced Martha, holding a small suitcase.

“I’m leaving, Marta. I’ll call my lawyer in the morning,” he said.

Martha replied, her voice low.

“You’re not going anywhere. I don’t want Anna to see this.”

Julian turned his back. Martha quietly lifted a heavy frying pan and crept behind him.

The video cut off.

Steven’s voice shook.

“That’s it. That’s all we recovered.”

Mark slammed his fist on the table.

“We have everything. Now we wait for trial.”

---

That Night

Carol hugged Anna tightly. The girl had just fallen asleep after a nightmare. Her hair was damp with sweat.

Carol whispered softly.

“One day, you’ll hear your father’s voice again. And you’ll go back to being a child—not a witness to a crime.”

Outside, it rained lightly. But inside, the kitchen floor was cold.

The tiles were gone.
The body too.
But the memory of death still clung to the cement, like the final breath of a man betrayed and buried.

Mark stood up and placed a piece of evidence on the table—a frying pan with dried blood.

“This is what you used to strike him. The blood matches Julian’s DNA. This isn’t a joke or a threat. This is a crime.”

Martha looked down, but then quickly raised her head. Her voice was weak.

“Why don’t you tell them Julian filed for divorce when he wanted to take Anna and kick me out of the house I helped build? What did you expect me to do?”

“No one forced you to kill. We have laws to follow,” Richard said.

Martha whispered, “Where was that law when I cried myself to sleep every night? When I begged him not to leave me like some trash he wanted to throw away?”

Rose’s voice was cold. “We never said your pain didn’t matter. But no matter how painful it was, that doesn’t justify digging a grave beneath your kitchen floor.”

After the confrontation, the investigators expanded their inquiry into Martha’s personal life. Mark called Laura Mitchell, Martha’s former best friend, to clarify some text messages. Laura—a thin woman with curly hair and a distant air—was hesitant to speak.

“We used to be really close,” she said. “But Martha always wanted to be the center of attention. She had a short temper.”

Richard asked, “Did she ever say anything about Julian?”

Laura paused to think. “One time, she told me, ‘I hate the way Julian looks at our daughter, like she only belongs to him. If I lose Anna, then what’s the point of me?’ I thought she was just jealous at the time.”

Rose asked, “Do you think Martha was capable of murder?”

Laura was quiet for a moment, then softly answered, “I didn’t want to believe it. But when I heard Julian was missing… I wasn’t surprised. I’ve seen that look in her eyes. It wasn’t sadness.”

“It was the look of someone who had already made up her mind.”

Meanwhile, at Carol’s house, little Anna was playing with building blocks. She arranged them into a square, placing a small plastic figure in the center. Carol watched her quietly.

“What are you making, Anna?”

“I’m making a bed for Daddy,” the child replied. “Just like the one we had in our house before.”

Carol looked at her granddaughter and trembled. “Sweetheart, Daddy’s gone. He’s in a better place now.”

Anna shook her head. “Not yet. He’s still cold. I saw him in my dream last night. He was shivering.”

Carol pulled the child into a tight hug. “Your daddy loves you very much. But now you have to be strong. He’ll be happier knowing you’re safe and loved.”

Anna looked up. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Does Mommy love me?” Anna asked.

Carol could barely respond, but forced herself to speak. “Your mommy did something wrong, Anna. But you are not wrong. You are an innocent child, and we will do everything to protect you.”

In jail, Martha was visited by her lawyer, Victor Anderson—an older man with greying hair, known for handling tough cases.

He spoke bluntly. “Martha, I’m not here to help you lie. But I can help you regain some dignity—if you tell the truth and cooperate.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “Dignity? Is that buried next to Julian too?”

Victor stared at her firmly. “You still have a responsibility to your daughter Anna—so she won’t be ashamed of your name.”

Martha didn’t reply, but for the first time, her eyes weren’t cold. There was doubt. A trace of remorse.

The next day, Rose submitted her report to the judge. There were pieces of evidence such as recovered items, phone data, videos, witness testimonies, and the crime scene itself.

The investigation concluded that Martha Grant had the motive, opportunity, and means to commit the crime. It had been planned, the body was hidden, and the child was forced into silence. Authorities requested she be charged with murder, concealment of a corpse, and using a child in the commission of a crime. The judge approved her detention while awaiting trial.

In the courtroom, Mark stared quietly out the window. The sun was bright outside, but inside his heart was dark.

At Dr. Lucy Bennett’s clinic, Anna sat silently, holding the old teddy bear her father Julian had given her on her birthday. Her grandmother Carol held her hand. A nurse greeted them.

“Can I come with you, Anna?” asked Nurse Diana.

Anna nodded, glancing at Carol.

“I’ll be right outside, sweetheart,” said Carol.

Anna walked in quietly. The therapy room was colorful, filled with toys and books. She sat on a small chair in front of Dr. Lucy.

“What’s your name?” Lucy asked.

“Anna,” she replied.

“Do you like drawing?”

Anna nodded and pulled crayons and paper from her pocket.

She showed a drawing—a room, a kitchen, and a person lying beneath gray tiles. The figure had no face.

“Who is this, Anna?”

“Daddy,” she answered.

“What is Daddy doing?”

“He’s under the floor. He’s cold.”

Lucy looked at the drawing. “Who told you that?”

“I heard him,” said Anna.

“Daddy talked to me in a dream. He said, ‘Anna, I’m so cold.’”

Outside the room, Carol spoke with Mark. He was still quiet, but Carol knew the truth.

“Yes,” Mark finally said. “Sometimes she asks me where Julian is. Then she says, ‘He’s under the tiles.’ There’s no fear in her voice. Just facts. No four-year-old should know things like this.”

Carol’s voice trembled.

Back inside the therapy room, Lucy continued.

“Who put Daddy under the floor?”

“Mommy,” Anna answered, as if recounting a child’s game.

“Mommy said, ‘Be quiet.’ Then she hit Daddy with the frying pan. He stopped moving.”

Lucy wrote everything down.

“Were you scared?”

“I couldn’t be scared,” Anna said. “Mommy said if I told anyone, our family would go away. Then she cried. I got scared of her crying.”

Lucy sighed deeply. It was clear Anna was suffering from post-traumatic stress. She hadn’t just witnessed the crime—she was forced to keep it secret.

That night at Carol’s house, Anna quietly drew pictures.

Carol approached her.

“Who’s this, sweetheart?” she asked, looking at a drawing of a child holding a balloon and a man smiling beside them.

“Daddy,” Anna said. “He’s not cold anymore. He has a balloon now.”

Carol hugged her tightly. But that night, while Anna slept, she cried and mumbled in her dreams:

“Daddy, don’t leave me. Don’t let Mommy close the door.”

Carol held her all night, awake with every sob.

The next day at the precinct, Dr. Lucy gave her report to Rose and Mark.

“Anna can’t testify in court,” Lucy said, “but her accounts are consistent—the location of the body, the timeline, what Martha did. It all matches the evidence.”

“Was she afraid of her mother?” Rose asked.

“Not just fear—fear of losing love,” Lucy explained. “It’s common in children. Even after being hurt, they still believe their parents love them.”

“Can her drawings be used in court?” Mark asked.

“They’re not legal evidence,” Lucy replied, “but I can explain them as an expert witness, if the court allows it.”

“I’ll include the drawings in the case file,” Rose replied.

That afternoon, journalist Scott Vincent approached Mark. “I want to write Martha Grant’s story to show how crimes like this affect children. I won’t mention Anna’s name.”

Mark thought for a long moment.
“Alright—just don’t add to the child’s pain. Tell the story… with heart.”
“My title will be Daddy Under the Kitchen: A Child’s Truth.”
Mark looked at him. “Use your heart, not just your pen.”

In jail, Attorney Victor Anderson spoke again with Martha.
“I’ve received Dr. Lucy’s report. Anna is undergoing therapy. She still calls you ‘Mommy’… but her nights are full of nightmares. She said you hit Julian with a frying pan.”

Martha sat silently, holding the report—barely breathing.

At midnight, in Mark’s office, he sat alone. In his hands were Anna’s drawings—pictures of a kitchen, the tiles, and a man lying underneath. One of the last drawings showed a child crying beside her father’s lifeless body. In the corner of the paper, Anna had written:
“I miss Daddy.”

Mark quietly wrote in his journal.

In the following days, after Martha’s arraignment, Mark and the investigation team received a detailed financial report from the Illinois Central Bank. Over 50 pages long, it listed all of Martha’s transactions in the three months leading up to the crime.

Richard Monroe flipped through each page, frowning at a disturbing pattern of repeated cash withdrawals—always at 2:00 AM. Martha claimed she couldn’t sleep and went grocery shopping, but no stores were open at that hour. She wasn’t shopping.

“I’m convinced,” Richard said. “She was paying someone… or buying things secretly.”
Mark nodded. “Check ATM locations near the house. Pull CCTV footage within a 3-kilometer radius.”

Three hours later, young officer Nathan Rogers returned with footage from an ATM just two blocks from Martha’s house. The video showed Martha, wearing a cap and dark glasses, withdrawing over $8,000 at 2:16 AM—three days before Julian disappeared.

“She left no financial trail,” Mark told Richard. “In the dead of night, she was clearly setting something up. Something only she knew about.”
Richard added, “Or maybe… she was preparing to live without Julian.”

Prosecutor Rose Martin expanded the investigation. She requested an official report from the Federal Property Registry to determine the true ownership of Julian and Martha’s house.

The report confirmed: the house belonged solely to Julian. He inherited it from his father and it was titled in his name before their marriage. Martha was not a legal owner.

Mark looked seriously at the document.
“The motive is clear. If Julian divorced her, she’d lose everything—the house, the child, her life. Murder was the only way for her to keep it all.”
Rose nodded. “We also need to look into her relationship with Samuel Brooks. Even if he wasn’t directly involved, he might’ve been the emotional trigger.”

Samuel Brooks was brought back for interrogation. This time, no coffee, no smiles—just Mark and Rose in a cold, brightly lit room.

“We’ve reviewed your phone,” Rose began. “You exchanged hundreds of messages with Martha. In one, she said, ‘I’ll be free soon. Wait for me.’ And you replied, ‘Don’t do anything you’ll regret.’”

Samuel glanced around nervously. “I didn’t know she was planning to kill him. But I knew Julian filed for divorce.”

Mark pushed. “Did Martha tell you that herself?”

Samuel nodded. “Yes. She said Julian was going to take Anna. She was heartbroken. I thought she just needed comfort. I didn’t realize how serious it was.”

Rose asked, “Did she make any promises to you?”

Samuel lowered his head. “She said… once Julian was gone, she’d sell the house. She needed the money so we could move to Boston together.”

Mark cursed and slammed the table.
“So she killed Julian for the house, and planned to start a new life—with you.”

Samuel trembled. “I didn’t know it would come to this…”

Rose ordered a deeper investigation into Martha’s online bank accounts, especially cryptocurrency. Nathan later discovered a hidden crypto wallet where Martha had transferred nearly $16,000—about a week after Julian was reported missing.

Outside the station, Richard lit a cigarette. Mark followed and gently placed a hand on his shoulder—not out of anger.

“This wasn’t just rage,” Mark said. “It was calculated. She used her own daughter as a witness—even though the child didn’t want to speak. She didn’t just kill Julian. She stole Anna’s childhood.”

That night, at Carol’s home, she sat with her private lawyer, Alan Parker—a longtime family friend.

“Do you want to file for full legal custody?” Alan asked.

“This isn’t about want. It’s about need,” Carol replied firmly. “I won’t let that woman have my granddaughter back. Never.”

Alan nodded cautiously. “Criminal and civil custody cases are different. But with the evidence we have, we can combine the two. You’ll need to testify in the custody hearing.”

Carol nodded. “I’ll do everything—for Anna.”

Three days later, during a closed hearing between the prosecution and judge, Rose officially requested an additional charge: coercing a minor into silence and manipulating a child’s testimony.

Based on Anna’s statements, drawings, and Dr. Lucy’s psychological report, Rose explained:
“The accused threatened her daughter after the crime to keep it secret.”

The judge asked, “Is there clear psychological harm?”

Rose replied, “Anna is only four—but she carries a secret even adults fear. If that’s not trauma, I don’t know what is.”

Mark added, “We’re also requesting fraud charges related to financial abuse after the murder—particularly the illegal appropriation of the victim’s assets.”

The judge nodded. “I approve the additional charges. This will be treated as a special and grave crime.”

A week later, Dr. Lucy brought Anna to group therapy. Other children were there. Lucy asked them to draw a place where they felt most comfortable.

Anna painted her grandmother, her teddy bear “Paipo,” and a chair beside a window. But in the bottom-right corner of the paper, there was a strange black shape under the floor.

Lucy sat beside her. “Who is that, sweetheart?”

“Daddy,” Anna answered.

“Where is Daddy now?”

“Sleeping,” said Anna. “But he said I shouldn’t worry. He said I did the right thing. And because of me… he won’t be forgotten.”

Lucy couldn’t hold back her tears. She wrote in her journal:

“No child should carry the secret of a death. But Anna, with innocent words, revealed the truth.
She is the first light in a very dark room.”

Meanwhile, in jail, Martha received devastating news—Samuel Brooks was charged with withholding information and assisting after the crime.

Enraged, Martha banged the wall.
“He promised he’d be there for me!”

Guard Stella Roberts looked at her.
“You murdered your husband. You used your daughter. And now you’re blaming your lover?”

Martha’s voice was low and cold. “I did it because I didn’t want to lose everything.”

Stella smirked. “And now… you’ve lost it all.”

That afternoon, Martha was summoned for her fourth interrogation. She wore a thin jacket and looked exhausted—but her eyes still carried some fire.

Mark entered, followed by Rose and Martha’s lawyer, Victor Anderson.

“Martha,” Mark began, “we have evidence you borrowed $18,800 from Julian before he disappeared.”

“Yes,” Martha said. “It was for my business.”

“But there’s no registered company, no license, no partners,” Rose countered.

“And after Julian died, you transferred the money to an anonymous crypto wallet,” Mark added.

“I was afraid they’d take it back,” Martha whispered.

Victor quickly interrupted.
“I advise my client not to answer further without my approval.”

Martha looked at her lawyer, then gave a bitter smile.
“A lawyer can save you… but not your name.”

Mark continued calmly.
“We also noticed your secret communications with Samuel Brooks. You were hiding a relationship.”

Martha’s lips trembled.

“I call him my runaway angel,” Martha said.

Rose shook her head.
“This isn’t personal, Martha. When you beat your husband, stuffed him in a bag, and buried him under the kitchen floor, this stopped being about a relationship. It became a crime.”

Rose showed the results of a handwriting analysis. It compared Martha’s handwriting to the threats found in Julian’s journal.
The handwriting, pressure, and unusual shapes of the letters matched perfectly.

One note stood out:
“If you leave me, I’ll make sure you leave with nothing.”
Mark read it aloud, then closed his eyes.
“This wasn’t a moment of passion. This was a plan.”

On the morning of November 14, the Illinois court opened the preliminary hearing in the case of Martha Grant, accused of murdering her husband Julian Grant.
It was one of the most shocking cases of the year.

Though it was only the first hearing, the courtroom was packed with reporters, journalists, and onlookers.
When the doors opened, all eyes turned to Martha, dressed in a gray prison uniform.
She did not lower her head or cover her face. She walked straight in, eyes cold and distant.
By her side was her lawyer, Victor Anderson, calm and professional.

Mark Rivers and Prosecutor Rose Martin took their seats.
In the public gallery, Carol held Anna tightly.
The little girl was dressed in white, clutching her teddy bear, Pippo.
No one forced her to be there. Anna had said, “I want to be at the trial. For Daddy.”

The courtroom bell rang.
Presiding Judge John Harris, a serious judge of Grenadan descent known for his strictness, tapped his gavel.
“We’ll begin with the prosecution.”

Rose stood up, sharp as a blade.
“Your Honor, members of the court. Today we are not only presenting a case of murder, but of betrayal in its cruelest form.
A wife killed her husband while his back was turned and buried him beneath the kitchen floor—
the same floor where their little daughter sat each morning to eat her cereal.”

The room was silent.

“We have strong evidence.
Threats written by the accused.
Video footage of violent acts using a blunt object.
Financial records showing suspicious withdrawals and untraceable transfers.
And most importantly, the testimony of the victim’s young daughter, who—unintentionally—revealed the full truth in a single sentence:
*‘Daddy is under the kitchen floor.’”

Rose turned to the jury.
“The world must not remain silent in the face of murder—especially when that silence is forced upon a child.”

A faint applause came from the back.
Judge Harris tapped the gavel again for silence.

Victor Anderson rose and stepped forward.
“I do not deny that what Martha did was wrong.
But I ask the court to understand—some people are driven to do desperate things under extreme circumstances.
Martha was controlled by Julian.
Emotionally abused for years.
She acted under severe mental distress.
She feared losing her child, her home, her life.
She is not a cold-blooded killer.
She is a desperate mother.”

Whispers filled the room.

Rose stood abruptly.
“If she feared losing her child, why did she do the one thing that guaranteed her child would be taken away from her?”

Victor did not answer.
He lowered his head.
“Your Honor, if the court allows, I would like to present a drawing interpreted by the child’s psychologist—a visual testimony of the incident.”

Rose did not object.

An officer placed the drawing on an easel.
It showed a man lying under the floor tiles.
Tiles uneven around his body.
Beside him, a woman holding what appeared to be a frying pan.
Next to her, a little girl crying.

The courtroom was silent.

Judge Harris asked,
“Was this drawing made after the incident?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” they replied.
“It was done during a therapy session, without any guidance.”

At the bottom of the drawing were Anna’s words:
“Mommy said I should be quiet, but I still heard Daddy saying he had a fever.”

Martha lowered her head.
She couldn’t bear to look at the drawing.

Carol leaned close to Anna and whispered with teary eyes,
“You’ve shown the whole world what kind of man your father was.”

Mid-hearing, Judge Harris allowed Dr. Lucy Bennet, psychologist, to testify as an expert witness.
Lucy stood tall, though clearly burdened.

“Anna is suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder,” Lucy said.
“Though only four years old, she clearly explained the events, which match forensic evidence.
Most significantly, she said:
‘Mommy hit too hard. Daddy stopped moving.’
And, *‘Mommy told me to stay quiet.’”

A juror asked,
“Do you believe a child that young could invent such a story?”

Lucy’s answer was firm.
“No.
This level of detail comes only from real experience—
a memory deeply imprinted due to trauma.”

Judge Harris nodded.
“Thank you, Doctor.
Though not official evidence, the child’s statements will be considered crucial in this case.”

That afternoon, Martha was called to make her final statement.
Each step she took was heavy.
The fire in her eyes was gone—replaced by sorrow and surrender.

“I have no defense,” she whispered.
“I thought I was the victim.
But when I saw my daughter…
holding her teddy bear… drawing a dead body…
I knew I don’t deserve to be called a mother.”

She turned to Anna.
“You did the right thing, sweetheart.
I was wrong. I’m sorry.
I accept whatever punishment I get.
But please… don’t let Anna return to that house.”

Judge Harris struck the gavel.
“This session is now concluded.”

Verdict:

Martha Grant is found GUILTY of the following:

First-degree murder

Concealment of a corpse

Financial fraud related to illegal inheritance

Coercion of a minor

Malicious infliction of trauma on a child

Due to the severity of her crimes, she is sentenced to life imprisonment.
Custody of Anna Grant is permanently awarded to Carol Morgan,
per the recommendation of the Child Protection Agency.

The courtroom was silent.
Rose gave a small nod.
Victor Anderson bowed his head—accepting the outcome.

Judge Harris said:
“I rarely speak personally,
but Anna Grant, age four,
is the reason we’re all here.
When she said ‘Daddy is under the kitchen floor,’
those were not innocent words.
They were truth—spoken by the most honest and brave among us.
She saved her father from being forgotten.
And she saved herself.”

He turned to Anna.
“Thank you, Anna.”

“Thank you for listening to me,” Anna replied, soft but strong.

---

The news exploded across the state.
Front page of the New York Times:
“Justice from the Voice of a Child: The Murder Case That Shook Illinois”

Journalist Scott Vincent wrote:
“We often say children don’t understand the world.
But Anna proved some truths can only be spoken by a child—
because they haven’t yet learned how to lie.”

---

At the women’s correctional facility, Martha sat quietly in isolation,
holding an old photo from her wedding with Julian.

Warden Stella Roberts approached.
“You had everything once—husband, daughter, home.
But you gave it all up for a lie.
And in the end, you lost it all.”

Martha said nothing.
She just stared at the photo.

---

At the social services office, Carol signed the legal papers for Anna’s custody.
Her hands trembled.
“Congratulations,” said Officer Philip Newton.
“Anna will move to a safer place. With therapy and a new school.”

When asked where Anna would go,
Carol smiled at a sunny, grassy place with art supplies.

Two weeks later, Anna was officially enrolled at St. Mary’s Preschool
in a quiet town far from the city.
There, no one knew her past.
She was just a child.

On her first day, she carried Pippo, her teddy bear.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” asked Miss Mary Evans.
“Anna. And this is Pippo.”
“Can Pippo study with you?” the teacher asked.
“Yes,” Anna smiled.

The other children laughed.
And for the first time in many months,
Anna’s eyes sparkled again.

---

During a therapy session, Dr. Lucy handed Anna a sketchpad.
“Let’s draw people who make you feel safe.”

Anna drew quietly.
When finished, she showed a picture:
An elderly woman with silver hair hugging a little girl holding a teddy bear.
Next to them, a tall man holding a balloon.

“Who’s he?” asked Lucy, pointing.
“That’s Daddy,” Anna answered.
“In my dream, he said,
‘I don’t have to be scared anymore.
You’re the bravest person I know.’”

Lucy teared up.
“You’re a hero, Anna.”

Anna smiled and looked at Pippo.
“Daddy’s not cold anymore.
Because he’s in my heart now.”

---

One quiet evening in the province,
Carol watched Anna happily riding a bike.
Francis Davis came and praised Carol for saving the little girl.
“You’re the most deserving person to raise her,” he said.

Meanwhile, in his office, Judge Mark Rivers stared at the case file.
He set aside Anna’s drawing—the one with the note that said
“Daddy used to be under the floor, but now he’s in my dreams.”

Mark whispered:
“Real justice isn’t just punishing the wicked…
…it’s giving new life to the innocent, without fear.”