The pristine white trash bags sat neatly stacked in Sarah’s garage, their clinical sterility a stark contrast to their intended purpose. She ran her fingers across the smooth plastic, remembering how meticulously she had selected them at the store - extra thick, tear-resistant, with reliable drawstring closures.

“You seem rather particular about garbage bags,” remarked Detective Morrison, his keen eyes studying her face. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the concrete floor as they stood among the organized shelves of cleaning supplies.

Sarah smiled thinly. “I appreciate quality in everything, Detective. Even mundane items deserve attention to detail.”

“Indeed.” Morrison’s weathered features creased thoughtfully. “Though most people don’t stock industrial quantities of premium trash bags unless they’re planning something… substantial.”

The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. Sarah could feel her pulse quickening but kept her expression neutral, channeling the same poise she’d maintained through three previous police interviews.

“Are we still discussing garbage disposal, Detective?” she asked softly. “Or are you implying something else?”

“Your husband’s disappearance remains unsolved, Mrs. Chen. And certain elements don’t quite add up.”

Sarah’s mind drifted to that rainy night six months ago - James’s drunken rage, the crash of breaking glass, her own trembling hands. The memories surfaced like bubbles in still water.

“James was a troubled man,” she said carefully. “His demons were his own.”

“Yet his body was never found.” Morrison’s voice carried an edge. “Only traces of blood in your immaculate kitchen, and curious receipts for cleaning supplies.”

Sarah’s laugh was light, practiced. “Are you suggesting I… what? Disposed of him? In trash bags?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Then you clearly don’t understand quality trash bags, Detective.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Even the best ones leave traces. Microscopic tears. Fluid leakage. Evidence.”

Morrison’s eyebrows rose slightly. Sarah continued, her voice taking on an instructor’s tone:

“If I had murdered my husband - hypothetically speaking - I wouldn’t have used bags at all. Too risky. Too amateur.” She met his gaze steadily. “I would have used chemistry.”

The detective’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to his weapon. “Is that a confession, Mrs. Chen?”

“It’s a lesson in critical thinking. James was a chemistry professor, after all. He taught me well.”

Just then, a familiar voice called from the house. “Sarah? Are you home?”

The color drained from Sarah’s face as James Chen walked into the garage, very much alive and sober. He stopped short at the scene before him.

“Detective Morrison? What’s going on?”

Sarah recovered first, her composure sliding back like a well-worn mask. “The detective was just leaving, dear. We were discussing… waste management.”

Morrison looked between them, confusion warring with suspicion on his face. Later, reviewing his notes, he would puzzle over Sarah’s strange behavior and cryptic comments. But he would never learn about the other James Chen - Sarah’s twin brother, whose body did occupy one of those clean white bags, buried deep in the chemistry department’s hazardous waste disposal site.

Some family secrets, Sarah mused, were best kept wrapped in multiple layers of deception. Just like those pristine trash bags in her garage - clean on the outside, but capable of containing unspeakable things within.