My Ex Killed Him

The Body in My Bedroom

Ava’s POV

The pounding wasn't a dream.

It was a fist against wood, insistent and rhythmic, dragging me up from a depth of sleep I hadn't earned.

My eyes fluttered open to darkness. The sheets were twisted around my legs, a damp knot, and my head throbbed with a dull, foreign rhythm. The air in the room tasted metallic, wrong. Another pound, this one rattling the picture frame on my wall.

"Police! Open the door!"

My heart didn't just jump. It seized, a frantic bird against my ribs. I sat up, the motion sluggish.

Something was wrong. My clothes were on the floor in a trail I didn't recognize creating, one sneaker lying on its side near the bed. I couldn't remember taking them off. I couldn't remember getting into bed.

"Miss Carter! We know you're in there!"

My feet found the floor. They met something cold and wet. I looked down.

Blood.

A single, dark line had seeped across the polished wooden floorboards, inching from under the bathroom door like a slow-moving crimson tide.

"No."

The whisper was useless, swallowed by the pounding at the front. I pushed myself to standing, my legs feeling like borrowed things. My hand trembled as it reached for the bathroom doorknob. The metal was cold, slick.

I turned it. The door swung inward.

And the sound that ripped from my throat was something I didn't recognize, a raw, animal thing torn from the core of me.

He was lying there. Dylan.

His body was folded on the tile, the brilliant white of our bathroom floor making the impossible amount of red seem even more vivid. His basketball jersey, the blue one with his number, 11, was soaked through. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. But he wasn't looking at anything.

I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the rug. "No... no, no, no."

The front door splintered. Two officers rushed in, their movements practiced. One grabbed my arm, his grip firm. "Step away from the body!"

"I didn't—"

"Step away! Now!"

I obeyed, my body going rigid. My hands rose to my mouth, but the sobs were stuck. I could only stare at the man I'd loved, the man whose laugh I knew better than my own. Dead. On my bathroom floor.

The younger officer knelt, two fingers pressed to Dylan's neck. A pause. He looked up at his partner, a definitive shake of his head.

A sound escaped me then, a half-sob, half-gasp. My knees felt weak.

"What happened?" I whispered. The words felt like stones.

Neither answered. The older one, his face lined and weary, looked from Dylan to me. "Where were you last night?"

"Here." My own voice sounded distant. "I was here."

"Alone?" His eyes were assessing. I looked at Dylan. The image burned itself onto my retina.

"No."

"Who was with you?"

"Dylan."

"You two argue?"

I swallowed, trying to force moisture into a desert throat. "No."

He studied my face. "You don't remember?"

My stomach tightened into a knot of ice.

"Remember what?"

He didn't answer, just gestured toward the bathroom with a slight tilt of his head. "Do you know how he died?"

I shook my head, the motion feeling mechanical.

"No."

The officer reached for my wrist again. I flinched so hard my whole body jolted. He immediately let go, hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Sorry."

I stared at him, at the sudden apology, the space he gave me. My entire body felt numb, disconnected. A detective entered the apartment then, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes that seemed to take in the whole room at once.

She walked past me without a word, her focus absolute. She knelt beside Dylan, her movements economical, respectful. Then she looked up, her eyes landing on me.

"Ms. Carter."

"Yes?"

"I'm Detective Morgan." She showed me a badge briefly, a silver shield. "I need you to stay right where you are."

"Why?"

Her gaze flickered to the floor, to the thin trail of blood. "Because we don't know what happened here yet."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. "I didn't kill him."

Nobody had said it. Not yet. But the words came out anyway, a desperate plea to a jury that hadn't been convened.

Detective Morgan's expression shifted, a subtle softening around the eyes. "Why would you say that?"

I couldn't answer. Because I didn't know. Because I was terrified. Because there was a gaping, black hole in my memory where the last few hours should be.

The detective noticed. "What is the last thing you remember?"

I closed my eyes, trying to force the images back. Dylan. Smiling. The white carton of takeout on the counter. The playoffs. His arms around me.  Then... nothing. An abyss.

"I remember going to bed."

"With Dylan?"

"Yes."

"What time?"

"I don't know."

"Did you drink?"

"No."

"Take anything? Any medication?"

"No."

"Did anyone visit? After he got here?"

"No."

She jotted something in a small notebook. Then she looked past me, toward the kitchen. An officer called her name.

She walked away, leaving me alone with the silent weight of the room. My eyes found Dylan again. There was something wrong, something beyond the obvious. His watch was gone. The silver one I'd bought him for his birthday.

He never, ever took it off. He slept in it. I took a step forward. "Detective." She turned, her eyebrow raised. "What is it?"

"His watch." My voice was hoarse. "It's gone."

"What about it?"

"He always wore it. He never took it off." She looked at Dylan's bare wrist, then back at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Anything else missing?"

My eyes swept the apartment. My phone was on the coffee table. My purse was on the chair. My laptop was closed on the desk. Nothing seemed disturbed, nothing stolen.  Except... my basketball trophy. The one from my rookie season.

It was knocked over on its side on the bookshelf.

I walked toward it. "Ava." Detective Morgan's voice was firm, a command.

"Don't touch anything."

I stopped. An officer in gloves carefully picked it up. There was blood on the base. My stomach dropped, cold and heavy. "That's mine."

"I know."

"Did you hit him with this?" The detective asked.

My mouth fell open. "No!"

"Your fingerprints are on it."

"Of course they are! It's my trophy! It's been in my apartment for five years!"

She said nothing. Another officer came in, holding a clear plastic evidence bag. He whispered something to Morgan. Her face hardened.

"What?" I asked.

She didn't look at me. She looked at the officer, a conflict playing out behind her eyes. "Where did you find that?" She asked him.

"Under her bed," he answered. He handed her the bag. Inside was a kitchen knife. Blood coated the blade, dark and clotting. It was one of mine.

From the block on the counter. My blood turned to ice water. "I've never seen that knife before."

Detective Morgan looked at me, "There are prints on it."

I knew. I knew before she said it, a certainty that settled in my bones like frost. "Yours."

My legs almost gave out. I would have fallen if I weren't already frozen in place.

"I didn't kill him."