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After my husband slipped and died in our house, five years went by—until a flowerpot changed everything.

The officers moved slowly and deliberately through the room, careful not to disturb anything unnecessarily. One photographed the cracked flowerpot from multiple angles, capturing the way the soil had spilled onto the floor like a quiet confession. Another documented the tarnished key resting on a folded cloth, while a third carefully slid the fragile note into an evidence sleeve. Their movements were calm, methodical, and respectful, which helped steady my nerves just enough for me to breathe. They treated the discovery seriously, but without urgency or…

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