It looked like part of a men’s dress shirt, ripped rough at one edge and stained dark at the other. On the corner, stitched in navy thread, were three initials.

D.C.M.

Daniel Carter Miller. My son-in-law.

The sheriff’s deputy stepped closer, careful not to crowd me. “Dr. Hayes, we’ll need that bagged once the attending clears it.”

His voice was respectful, but he was watching me the way officers watch men near breaking points.

I heard myself answer like I was standing outside my own body. “Photograph it first. Under her hand. Then remove it. Chain of custody starts before anyone touches anything.”