The polished marble floor of the grand kitchen reflected the warm light of the crystal fixtures overhead. Marcus stepped into the room, unbuttoning his dark suit jacket after a long flight from London.
Marcus: Maya? Are you in here?
A frantic, wet scrubbing sound echoed from the far corner of the room near the deep stone sink.
Marcus: What is going on in here?
His seven-year-old daughter, Maya, stood on a small wooden step stool, her tiny hands submerged in bright red water. Beside her, the middle-aged housekeeper scrubbed at a thick cloth with desperate, shaking hands.
Marcus: What happened?
The scrubbing continued without stopping. Marcus walked closer, his heart heavy as he saw the dried dark smudge across his daughter's left cheek.
Maya: Daddy...
Marcus: Whose blood is this?
Marcus knelt beside the small wooden stool, his fingers wrapping around the soaked, crimson cloth in her hands.
Maya: Mommy's.
Marcus: Your mother is in Switzerland. She left for the Zurich medical conference yesterday morning.
The housekeeper burst into quiet, hysterical tears, dropping her scrub brush into the marble basin and placing her trembling hands on Maya's shoulders.
Ellen: She never left, Mr. Hall.
Marcus stood up abruptly, his hands clenching into tight fists as he turned to face the vast, quiet house behind him.
Marcus: Where is she?
Ellen squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak as the front door of the mansion creaked open down the grand hallway.