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And there’s such a thing as a silent alarm, though I never saw the logic. So it’s a calculated risk.

The door pops open and I hold my breath. But no sound comes, no whiny shriek or bullhorn. As far as I can tell, Jonathan Liu didn’t set his alarm.

The interior is huge, as the online description of the house advertised. I tiptoe through the to-die-for kitchen, which is perfect for entertaining, with its soapstone countertops and designer cabinets, past the charming half bath, with its imported marble pedestal sink-everything imported-and make my way into the living room, with its built-in bookcases, picture windows, pitched ceiling, and fireplace, which boasts a mantel of marble that was probably also imported, though they never mentioned it in the listing.

Then I hit the staircase. I take each step carefully, transferring my weight with caution. I can spare the two or three minutes of time. I can’t spare Jonathan Liu hearing a creak on the staircase and popping awake and reaching for the pistol on his bedside table-

Stop, Ben.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. What am I doing? What am I going to do, put him in a choke hold?

I take another step. Another. Get him out of his comfort zone, that’s what I’m doing. Catch him off guard and interrogate him. Right. This could work.

I reach the top of the staircase. I could turn in either direction, but it looks like the master bedroom is down to the left.

Then I smell something. I can’t place it, but it triggers memories from long ago.

I am an eight-year-old boy. I am home from school but I don’t call out. I don’t know why but instead of heading into the kitchen, I go immediately upstairs. I walk into the master bedroom, Mother and Father’s room, and I see Mother’s hair cascading across the bathroom floor in the small corner of the bathroom that is visible to me.

And then I see Father stepping out of the bathroom in a white undershirt, holding a garbage bag full of something.

Benjamin, he says. You’re…home early.

My feet keep moving forward, even as Father tries to block my view of the bathroom, and I see her lying prone, a pool of blood coming from her head, a handgun two, maybe three, feet away from her on the bathroom tile-

No! No! No! I say it so many times I lose count. And then Father catches me, and he holds me by the shoulders so he can see me eye-to-eye. There’s been a terrible accident, he says. He picks me up and carries me out of the room and locks me in my room. I scream and plead and slam my fists against the door and lose my breath.

As I approach Jonathan Liu’s bedroom, my pace begins to slow. My heart is hammering, sounding a gong between my ears.

The door reopens. Father lets me out and holds me tight, walking me back into the master bedroom. As I said, there’s been a terrible accident, Ben. I’m sorry you had to see this. But I guess you have to.

Not letting go of me, he allows me to peek in again. Mother’s eyes are lifeless, her lips have formed a soft O, her body is sprawled out along the tile next to the pool of blood. It’s the same scene I saw when I first walked in.

Only this time, the gun is in Mother’s hand.

Jonathan Liu has a nice love seat in the corner of his gigantic master suite. He is resting in it now, with his chin on his chest, the left side of his head blown off. In his limp right hand is a handgun.

Murder can be made to look like suicide, and suicide can be made to look like murder.