Edward’s Final Moments A Samantha Leary Short Story

This story contains themes suitable for adults. Please proceed only if you are 18+

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By J.E. Nickerson

Samantha’s fingers hovered over the mouse, hesitating for a heartbeat before she clicked. The screen glowed faintly in the dim evidence room, casting shadows that seemed to stretch and lean toward her. Printer toner mingled with the faint, stale scent of the building, sterile and heavy, pressing against her senses.

She scrolled through the digital archives, pausing as a small headline caught her eye:

“Five-Year-Old Child Drowned in Pool; Father Found Innocent of Wrongdoing.”

Her chest tightened sharply. She read it again. The words were simple, factual, stripped of emotion. No names. No faces. Just the record of the boy, the pool, the tragedy, the father cleared.

Her thumb pressed against the mouse, fingers tightening unconsciously. Her eyes fell on the father’s last name. A coil of unease settling low in her stomach.

Her pulse raced as she grabbed her phone and dialed Greg. “Greg,” her voice taut, urgent, almost brittle, “I need you in the evidence room. Now.”

The line clicked. She felt the vibration echo like a pulse through her chest. The low hum of the computer seemed louder, like the room was holding its breath alongside her.

Minutes later, Greg arrived, his expression immediately alert. The low hum of the computer filled the quiet space, a steady counterpoint to the tension that wrapped around them like a heavy blanket. Samantha spread the folder across the table, letting the screen reflect off the glossy printouts.

“Look at this,” she said softly. Her voice was measured, but every syllable carried disbelief, a taut edge.

Greg leaned over, eyes narrowing, scanning the text, tracing lines and dates with precise focus. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then tapped quickly, pulling up the police database. Searching for the case in the papers. It only took a few minutes for images to appear — small, clinical, unemotional — but enough to anchor the reality of the past.

Samantha watched him closely. Every twitch of his jaw, the subtle narrowing of his eyes, the slight furrow between his brows, it all mirrored the weight she felt pressing on her chest. The police images filled the screen. Cold and lifeless. She sensed the horror, the finality of a child, five years old, lost forever.

Her stomach tightened, a cold twist that climbed toward her ribs. She tried to breathe slowly, to anchor herself, but each inhale felt shallow, like the air itself carried the weight of the child.

Greg’s fingers lingered over the screen. He paused, leaning back slightly, eyes darkened with disbelief. For a moment, he didn’t speak. The weight of the truth pressed into him, heavy and unyielding. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, each sound — the low hum, the tap of keys — magnified against the silent tension.

Finally, he looked up, eyes meeting Samantha’s. “We have to bring Suzanne in,” he said quietly, voice low, measured, like he was carrying the enormity of the words carefully. “She needs to explain this.”

Samantha nodded, swallowing hard, the muscles in her jaw tight. A cold certainty settled into the pit of her stomach. Something had been pulled from the past into the present. Something heavy, something real, and heartbreakingly human.

She exhaled slowly, almost imperceptibly, letting the tension slide out of her shoulders in a ghost of a movement. “This… this changes everything,” she whispered, as if saying it aloud could somehow anchor the spiraling thoughts, the questions that had begun to form in her mind.

Greg didn’t answer, only kept his gaze on the screen a heartbeat longer, then exhaled, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound that filled the silence between them. They both knew, without saying, that the next steps would take them into a place that none of their cases had ever required before — the raw, unvarnished truth of a life and a loss, and the fragile human psyche that had wrapped itself around it.

For a moment, they sat in that heavy quiet, the room charged with anticipation and dread. The screen reflected their faces, pale and taut under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with questions and the weight of understanding.

****

The hum of the overhead lights filled the interview room, a low electric buzz that seemed to press against the walls. The air smelled faintly of old paper and disinfectant.

Suzanne sat at the table, posture taut, her hands knotted together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her eyes moved between Samantha and Greg—searching, uncertain, afraid to ask what she already felt closing in around her.

“Did you find out where Edward is? Is he safe?” Her voice trembled, full of anxiety and hope. 

Greg didn’t answer. Suzanne’s words hung in the air as he placed the small stack of printed images from the police report carefully in front of her—letting the paper speak before he did.

Greg set the printed photos down carefully. “These are from the original investigation,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “The child from the pool.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then her fingers, trembling, reached forward. The edges of the paper scraped faintly against her skin as she pulled the top photo toward her.

Her breath hitched. Once. Twice.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The silence stretched until it cracked under the weight of it.

Then—“No…” Her voice was hoarse, barely audible. “No, that’s not—no…” her face twisted horribly. 

Suzanne’s body began to shake. Her hand flew to her mouth as if she could trap the sound, keep the grief contained, but it was already breaking free. A sob tore loose, then another—small, jagged, uncontrollable. Her whole frame folded inward as if the pain itself had weight.

Then the cry came.

A sound that didn’t seem entirely human.

Grief stripped bare, unrestrained, the kind that chilled Samantha to the bone.

Samantha’s throat tightened. She could see the exact moment Suzanne’s world collapsed—the flicker in her eyes, the realization sinking in that the truth had always been waiting for her, patient and cruel.

Greg leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on the table. “Suzanne,” he said gently, “you don’t have to explain everything right now. Just tell us what happened.”

Her voice came out in pieces. “It—it was him. His father. He was supposed to be watching Edward.” She wiped at her face with shaking hands, tears smearing her mascara into faint gray streaks. “I told Jack to stay near the porch. I told him…”

Her gaze darted from the photo to the floor, eyes unfocused, lost somewhere far away. “When I saw them—when I saw the neighbors pulling him from the pool—” Her words broke off. A ragged breath tore through her. “He wasn’t breathing. I screamed until my throat gave out. And Jack just… just stood there.”

The words came faster now, trembling on the edge of hysteria. “He left. He couldn’t stay. Said he couldn’t look at me, couldn’t look at the house, at anything.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Only the hum of the lights remained, steady and uncaring.

Then something in her eyes shifted—just slightly, a flicker of defense, the mind’s desperate mercy. Her breath steadied. Her voice softened.

“Have you… found anything about him?” she asked suddenly, gaze darting to Greg, then Samantha. “Edward. From the concert. You said there were leads—”

Samantha froze. The pivot was so smooth, so instinctive, that it chilled her more than Suzanne’s sobbing had. Suzanne’s mind had retreated into the safety of the delusion again, the only place where Edward still lived.

Greg exchanged a look with Samantha, the kind that didn’t need words. He swallowed hard, running a hand down his face. The photos still sat on the table between them—mute, undeniable, real.

Suzanne’s eyes filled with a fragile, trembling hope.

“He must be scared,” she whispered, her voice suddenly small, almost childlike. “He hates loud noises. If you just find him—if you could—”

Her gaze drifted past Samantha, unfocused, as though she were staring down a long tunnel.

“The last time I saw him was at the concert. He looked so handsome in his jacket.” A thin breath caught in her throat. “It was his favorite band too.”

Samantha reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of the table. “Suzanne…” she began softly.

But the woman didn’t hear her. Her gaze had gone distant, fixed somewhere behind them, a fragile smile forming through the tears.

Greg leaned back slowly, the chair creaking under his weight. His phone vibrated against the table, breaking the stillness. He didn’t look away from Suzanne as he answered.

“Jessica?” His voice cracked on the

first word.

“Yeah. I… I’ll talk soon. I just—” He stopped, pressing the heel of his hand against his eyes, as if he could block out the image of Suzanne unraveling across from him. “I just need to hear your voice.”

Silence hummed on the line. Then Jessica’s voice came—soft, steady, and grounding. “I’m here, Greg.”

He closed his eyes. For a moment, the sound of Jessica’s voice and the broken woman before him blurred into the same ache—the sound of people who had been changed by trauma.

Suzanne’s quiet murmurs filled the background—fragmented sentences about Edward, about the concert, about finding him soon.

Samantha stood, the sound of the chair legs scraping across the tile echoing faintly. She gathered the photos, sliding them back into the folder. Her movements were slow, deliberate, reverent.

Greg ended the call, eyes hollow but focused—watching Suzanne—small, fragile, rocking gently in her chair as she whispered her son’s name.

No one spoke.

The truth had finally surfaced.

And it had broken Suzanne.

****

The house was silent when Samantha stepped inside. She locked the door and leaned against it, the cool wood grounding her as she exhaled. The air still carried the faint scent of rain — the kind that always followed long days.

She moved slowly through the living room, her shadow trailing long and thin across the floor. She thought of Suzanne’s trembling hands, her voice unraveling mid-sentence — “If he’d just been watching, none of this would’ve happened.”

The words replayed in her mind with every step she took. Guilt, denial, grief — all twisted together until the truth no longer mattered.

She sat at the counter, staring at nothing. The silence pressed on her chest until it hurt.

Is this what waiting for the past to let go feels like? The words haunted her mind. 

Her phone was on the table. The thought came suddenly — uninvited but persistent. She picked it up, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before pressing call.

“Steven?” Her voice cracked slightly, more from exhaustion than emotion.

He sounded startled, then softened. “Sam? Everything okay?”

A small laugh escaped her — humorless, brittle. “No. Not really. But I didn’t want to sit here and pretend that it is.”

He didn’t fill the silence that followed. He just waited, steady as always. The silence wrapped around Samantha. She could feel his warmth through the line. 

“I thought maybe we could meet,” she said finally. “Tomorrow. Breakfast?”

“Yeah,” he said, and she could almost hear the relief in his voice. “I’d like that a lot. Just tell me where.”

“The café we first met at.” Her voice was strained, quiet. The place had a comfort and familiarity she needed — a reminder of something uncomplicated, before everything turned to shadows.

“I’d love that. And Sam, please take care of yourself.”

His words were soft, full of a kindness and warmth that caught her off guard — the kind she hadn’t felt directed at her in a long time.

When she hung up, she sat there a moment longer, the phone still in her hand. She thought of Suzanne again — the way her eyes had gone distant, lost in a memory that kept her alive and killed her at the same time.

Samantha closed her eyes. I don’t want to become her. The words whispered through her mind, almost desperate, leaving her pulse uneven. 

****

Morning light broke through the blinds, thin and pale. Samantha moved through her small ritual — coffee, shower, quiet — all of it mechanical. Her reflection in the mirror looked almost normal. Almost. She traced the faint lines etched around her eyes, a soft reminder of the weight she had been carrying, and felt a flicker of doubt: could she really let herself be seen today?

She forced herself to dress in a light blue blouse and dark jeans — a signal to her body that it was safe to unwind and leave the stiffness of her pantsuits and work behind. “It’s just breakfast,” she whispered to herself, just breakfast. You can do this.

As she fastened her watch, she caught herself whispering under her breath, “It’s done.” It wasn’t about Edward. It wasn’t even about Suzanne’s denial. It was about the things Samantha had buried — the trust she’d stopped offering, the people she’d shut out.

Her chest ached with the recognition, and for a heartbeat, the tension in her shoulders eased, a small exhale of herself returning.

Suzanne’s voice echoed again: “He was supposed to be watching him.”

The line twisted through her thoughts as she picked up her jacket. We’re all watching something too late, she thought. Some part of our lives we can’t get back.

She stepped outside before she could change her mind.

****

The restaurant was half-lit, the morning sun spilling gold across polished tables. Steven was already there, seated by the window wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up—refreshingly casual and unassuming compared to the world that had surrounded Samantha in the last few weeks. 

He looked up, and she saw it—the quiet, patient kind of warmth that had scared her before because it was real.

Samantha’s chest tightened for a moment, a mix of anticipation and fear, but she straightened, letting herself move toward him, one careful step at a time.

Her heartbeat steadied.

She walked toward him, each step measured, the sound of her boots sharp in the soft murmur of the room. His eyes holding hers — calm, searching, open.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

Dive into the full Samantha Leary novel to uncover the full story behind Edward’s final moments. Read it here: Edward is Missing

Samantha Leary Psychological Thrillers

The moment doesn’t end here. It never does.

For Samantha, this is where it begins—where instinct starts to press against the surface, where something unresolved refuses to stay buried.

If you felt that shift—the quiet sense that something isn’t right—you’re already inside her world.

The story continues in the Samantha Leary series, beginning with the prequel.

Step into the series on Amazon