Mrs. Taylor always got up bright and early in the morning. It was a habit that dated back to the first days of her marriage, when she liked breakfast to be ready on the table by the time her husband went downstairs and grabbed a quick bite before heading off to work.
Her husband had been dead for almost fifteen years now, but she still maintained her old routine. That particular morning she'd just had breakfast – a cup of tea with a buttered toast – when she glanced out of the window to find a whole crowd of police officers bustling about next door.
Her heart sank even further as she noticed the coroner's van parked down the alleyway. The old lady was particularly fond of her neighbors; the Janes were a nice couple, and their little girl was the most adorable child one could ask for.
She hated to think that something must have happened to them.
Slowly she cracked the door open and took a few tentative steps towards the nearby garden. A young policewoman promptly stepped in, resting a gentle hand on her forearm.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. This is a crime scene, you can't stay here."
Mrs. Taylor did her best to look ever more fragile than she actually was. "What happened?"
"I'm afraid I can't divulge any detail yet."
"But – they're my neighbors."
"The detective in charge will come and talk to you later. You have to understand, ma'am; we're here to do our job."
"I see," she murmured softly, and retraced her steps back home. It was at that moment that someone called after her; she immediately recognized the man as one of her husband's colleagues from the time he worked as a forensic technician.
"Mrs. Taylor, may I ask you a favor?"
"You only have to name it, Hopkins."
"Mr. Jane is really – upset. Would you mind keeping him company for a while?"
When she nodded in agreement Hopkins led the way into the hall, then to the kitchen where the owner of the house was slumped on a chair. She could see that his eyes were red and puffy from crying, and he was staring into emptiness.
A wave of sympathy rushed through the old lady; she remembered her own grief at the death of her beloved husband, and she knew it had to be ever harder for a young man as Mr. Jane was.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said sincerely, and even though she still had no idea of what had happened she could see it written all over his face.
Mr. Jane barely acknowledged her presence, his gaze lost into space. "My wife and child, they're dead. It's all my fault."
For a fleeting moment she considered the possibility that the man in front of her could actually be the killer of his family, but she dismissed it quickly enough; he looked utterly broken over the loss of his loved ones, and the police wouldn't have allowed her to walk in if they suspected Mr. Jane to be a murderer.
"What about I make some tea? It'll do you good."
When the man didn't answer she grabbed the kettle, filled it with water and put it on the stove.
"There's a box of Earl Gray in the cupboard," Mr. Jane let out in a hoarse whisper.
Mrs. Taylor dug two teacups out of the cupboard and poured a splash of milk into each of them.