I woke up the next morning with three missed calls from Evan. I wondered if Michelle called him or not. I petted Tybalt causally as he tried to lay on neck to fall back to sleep. He huffed at me as I got up for my day. I had not much information to review. I needed to go through the video and to review what Michelle told me. I needed to work.
I followed my usual routine this morning and walked down to my office. As I was opening the door, I could hear my phone ringing. I rushed to answer. To my surprise it was Evan.
The phone rang twice before I picked it up. "Chirp & Clue Investigations," I said, trying to inject some professionalism into my voice.
"At least you answer your office phone," came the dry reply on the other end.
I sighed, already recognizing the tone. "I was going to call you. I have a case and—"
"You're too busy to follow up on your own safety?" he interrupted, his words sharp but not unkind. The weight of them landed hard.
For a moment, I let the silence stretch before I answered, my voice softer. "I'm sorry. I've just been so tired and frustrated. Every time it feels like my life is settling back into normal, he shows up again. I can't win."
There was a pause, his exhale barely audible. "I get it," he said finally. "I'm sorry we haven't caught him yet, but you can't just cut me off—especially after what happened. You know I had to talk to Graham about it, right? About you being drugged and taken home by some guy you barely know? You know better than that."
My grip tightened on the phone. "I don't need a lecture," I snapped, the edge in my voice sharper than I intended.
"You need one sometimes," he shot back.
"I'm hanging up," I warned, already pulling the phone away from my ear.
"Wait!" he shouted, his voice cutting through my irritation.
I brought the phone back. "What?"
He sighed, the frustration in his voice giving way to something softer. "I'm sorry, okay? You're a grown-ass woman, and you can do whatever you want. But I care about you, and I worry."
The words hit differently, melting some of the tension between us. I didn't say anything, but my silence wasn't angry this time. It was understanding.
Evan leaned forward, his voice steady but carrying the weight of bad news. "I wanted to update you on the report. Your old house was broken into."
I froze, my stomach tightening.
"Nothing was taken," he continued, "but the place was ransacked. It doesn't look like a typical B&E. The new owners weren't home—they were on vacation. Lucky timing, I guess. But we both know Beau doesn't do anything without a reason. He's desperate to stay out of jail."
My breath caught. "I've been getting texts from a burner phone," I admitted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
"What?"
"Threatening texts. They started the night I met you. It all makes sense now." I swallowed hard. "He's really back, isn't he?"
Evan sighs grimly. "It looks like it."
"What do you really think? Honestly?" I pressed, my voice wavering.
"He's back," Evan said firmly. "You need to be extra careful." He ran a hand through his hair, already shifting into problem-solving mode. "Why don't I come over and grab your phone? I can work on tracing the number. Maybe we'll get a hit on a cell tower."
I hesitated, shaking my head. "I can't. I have a case I need to finish. I can't let my client down."
"Let me guess—the Ben Stover case?" Evan's tone held a mixture of exasperation and concern.
I didn't answer right away, but my silence was confirmation enough.
Evan's voice softened, but the weight of his words remained. "Is it really the case you're worried about?"
His question caught me off guard, and I frowned. "What else would it be? The case is what matters here. It's similar to my own, sure, but at least I can bring some peace to someone in this sick world."
He didn't respond right away, the pause stretching uncomfortably long.
"You went home with him," he finally said, his tone measured but pointed.
My jaw tightened. "I was drugged, Evan. He helped me. Nothing happened. And even if it did, it's none of your business." My voice rose with the heat of my anger.
Silence.
"Hello?" I pressed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was cool, detached. "Not very professional, going to a bar with your client."
I laughed sharply, a brittle sound. "I didn't go with him. I went with Layla and her ex. But it doesn't matter because I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Wait did you say drugged?"
"Ummm. Yeah the night at the club. I wasn't sure, so-" I started.
"Are you fucking kidding me! What the fuck!" He shouted.
"I told Michelle! And I'm ok!"
There was a long pause. I could hear his heavy breathing. It was like he was trying to calm himself down.
"Michelle knew?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, Marcus took a job across the country and expected her to move with him. She dropped him." I said changing the subject.
"How is she?"
"You know her. She changes boyfriends like underwear. She will be under someone else better in no time. She is a hot doctor."
"Valid point about Layla, but I really think you need to drop this," he said, his calm tone.
"And for the record, I'm not dropping the case. You don't get to control my business or my life. If you ask one more time, then I will cut you off. I mean it. I can't fight for my life with you too."
Evan sighed heavily, the sound weighted with frustration and something else I couldn't place. "I'm sorry. We've been doing this for years now, and I just want to catch him so you can finally live without looking over your shoulder."
His words disarmed me for a moment, the raw sincerity cutting through my defenses. "I know. Thank you for that."
"Can I stop by later to look at your phone?"
I hesitated. "I'll just get a new one. I'm due for an upgrade anyway, and clearly, I need a new number."
"I'll stop over after work around 8:00. Is that okay?"
"Sure."
"See you then," he said before hanging up. The line went dead, leaving me staring at the phone, caught somewhere between annoyance and gratitude.
Evan's words churned in my mind long after the call ended, the frustration bubbling beneath my skin. He always meant well—I knew that—but his constant meddling felt suffocating. It wasn't just him, either. First, it was my father dictating my every move. Then Beau, his obsession binding me in invisible chains. Now Evan and even Layla, who'd step into the role of pseudo-boss when it suited her. It was like everyone had a say in how I lived my life except me.
I longed for freedom, for the weight of their expectations to lift. But as long as Beau was out there, lurking in the shadows, freedom felt like a distant dream.
Shaking off the thought, I opened my laptop and pulled out my notepad. The familiar glow of the screen steadied me as I navigated to the video file. Clicking play, I leaned back, pen poised over paper. Wendy's voice crackled through the speakers, followed by her boyfriend's—a voice I struggled to remember. I flipped through my notes, searching for his name.
Blake. That was it. Blake.
I scribbled his name at the top of the page and focused on the video. Every detail mattered now.
I clicked play on the video, the screen filling with the soft, warm hues of Wendy's living room. The space was almost too perfect—cozy and inviting, with its neatly arranged pillows and a scented candle flickering on the coffee table. It gave the impression of normalcy, but the atmosphere in the room was anything but.
Wendy sat on the edge of the couch, clutching a steaming mug of tea. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the mug in her hands, the movement almost hypnotic. Her shoulders were hunched forward, as though she was trying to fold herself into something smaller. Her face was flushed, her eyes rimmed red. She blinked rapidly, her lips quivering as if she might cry. But no tears came.
I paused the video, rewound, and played that part again. It wasn't a lack of emotion—far from it. Her distress was palpable. It was as if she was trying so hard to let her feelings out but couldn't break past the invisible wall keeping her tears at bay. She had tissues and seemed very upset, but it could be as simple as a coping mechanism.
Blake sat next to her, an arm casually stretched across the back of the couch. His posture was relaxed, almost too much so, like he was playing a role: the strong, supportive boyfriend. His free hand rested on his knee, tapping an uneven rhythm. Nervous? Annoyed?
As Wendy's voice wavered, recounting the escalation of events—the slashed tires, the broken windows, the fire—Blake's expression tightened. He glanced at her when she paused, then quickly at me in the video. "We just want this over with," he said firmly, his voice cutting through Wendy's shaky narrative.
I rewound and watched again. Wendy's lips pressed together as Blake spoke, her head dipping just slightly. She tried to speak again, but Blake interjected before she could get a word out. "She's told you everything."
Her hand moved to her cheek, wiping at her eyes though no tears had fallen. Her lips curled into a small, apologetic smile, as though embarrassed by her inability to cry. "I'm sorry," she murmured, the words barely audible. "It's just been… a lot."
I jotted a note: Wendy—emotional but restrained. Fear? Shame? Tears absent despite distress.
Blake shifted on the couch, leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes locked on me in the video, his tone sharp with every word to me, but calm and kind to Wendy.
I paused the video again, focusing on the freeze frame: Wendy's gaze downcast, her fingers gripping the mug as though it were a lifeline. Blake's piercing eyes and tightly set jaw dominating the scene.
There was something in the way Wendy deferred to him, something in the way he took over the conversation, that unsettled me. She said she was fine, everything was "great," but her body told a different story. Her trembling hands, the empty tears, and her constant glances at Blake all painted a picture she wasn't ready to put into words.
I made another note: Dynamic between Wendy and Blake—protective or controlling? Dig deeper.
Something about this wasn't adding up, and I intended to find out what. I need to talk to the fire chief. I grabbed the folder that Michelle gave me. I opened it. It had a few pictures of the car damage. Slashed tires. Whore carved into the side of the car. There were photos of the restaurant too. I looked closely at the pictures.
I laid them all out carefully on the desk in front of me. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my magnifying glass and examined the picture. The exterior sign caught my attention right away. In the photo, the exterior of the building looked like it showed scorch marks that suggest the fire started outside and was directed inward—like from an ignited pile of materials against the wall, but that could be backdraft maybe. I don't know too much about fire damage. That is one of the few things I did not have experience in.
As I flipped through the photos of the charred restaurant, something caught my eye. In the corner near the kitchen door, a small bracket was mounted on the wall—empty. My stomach tightened. That's where a fire extinguisher should have been. The faint outline of soot framed the bracket, stark against the scorched wall, marking where the extinguisher had once hung. But it was gone.
I frowned and grabbed my notebook, flipping through the pages until I found Wendy's account. She'd said the fire broke out in the middle of the night, long after the restaurant had closed and the staff had gone home. There'd been no one there to use the extinguisher, so why wasn't it still in place?
The empty bracket nagged at me, its absence louder than anything else in the charred remains of the restaurant. Fires might ravage materials and reduce them to ash, but they didn't make heavy, metal fire extinguishers vanish. Unless someone had intentionally removed it. Why? To make the fire worse? To cover something up? The thought burrowed into my mind, unsettling and insistent. I scribbled a note to follow up on it later.
Checking the time on my phone, I frowned. Graham was expecting an update soon, and I couldn't show up with just breadcrumbs. He wouldn't say anything outright, but I'd see the frustration flicker across his face. I had to connect more dots before the next meeting.
Returning to my desk, I laid out the photos and pinned them to the corkboard. Ben's face went at the center of the tangled mess, his picture circled in red marker. I stretched strings from him to the restaurant and another to Wendy, anchoring her photo nearby. Blake's name went on a note card, looped into Wendy's connection. The web of relationships and events was a mess, but at least it was starting to take form.
Grabbing the binder of reports and my phone, I locked the office behind me. There was a mountain of reading ahead, and none of it promised answers. Still, the work couldn't wait.
As I reached the apartment door, my phone buzzed in my hand. I hesitated for a second, already bracing myself for the message, before glancing at the screen. It was Layla.
Layla:
Evan's here. I let him in. We're waiting for you.
I exhaled slowly, the weight of frustration pressing down on my shoulders. The idea of a quiet evening had officially evaporated. Resigned, I opened my laptop and typed up a quick email to Graham, summarizing the sparse leads I'd gathered so far. The blinking cursor on the screen seemed to mock me, a reminder of how little progress I'd made.
Hitting send, I leaned back in my chair, my fingers drumming anxiously on the desk. Graham wasn't exactly known for his patience, and the thought of him skimming this flimsy update sent a twinge of dread through me. Would he cut me loose? The possibility gnawed at me, but that wasn't what lingered the longest.
I stared at the screen, the email's "Sent" confirmation glaring back. This case wasn't just about pleasing Graham. Something about it tugged at me, a need to uncover the truth I couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the eerie parallels to my own life, or maybe it was just the sheer injustice of it all. Whatever the reason, failure wasn't an option—not yet.
I climbed the stairs, my footsteps echoing softly in the quiet building, and pushed open the door to an unexpected sight. Layla and Evan sat on the couch, their conversation punctuated with bursts of laughter. Layla leaned back, her arm draped casually over the couch, fingers lightly brushing against Evan's shoulder. The ease between them was undeniable, their connection natural, as if they'd shared this kind of moment a hundred times before.
For a second, I just stood there, watching. Evan's expression was unguarded, his usual sternness softened into something almost playful. Layla's eyes sparkled with amusement as she said something that made him laugh again—a deep, genuine sound I hadn't heard in a while.
I couldn't shake the twinge of something sharp in my chest, though I wasn't sure what it was. Of course, they knew each other. Evan had been around for years, just like Layla. Why wouldn't they get along? Still, the easy rapport between them caught me off guard, a reminder that sometimes, the people you think you know best might share something separate, something outside of you.
I cleared my throat as I stepped further into the room, breaking their bubble of laughter. Layla turned toward me, her grin bright and inviting. "Hey! Finally, you're here."
"Hi," I said, forcing a smile. "Didn't mean to interrupt."
"Oh, never," Evan replied, springing up from the couch. His usual no-nonsense demeanor slid back into place as he extended his hand toward me. "Cell phone, please."
With a sigh, I pulled my phone from my pocket and handed it over. "I haven't gotten any messages today, okay?"
"That doesn't matter," he said firmly, slipping my phone into a small plastic bag before tucking it into his bag. "The fact that he's contacted you at all is bad enough."
He looked between Layla and me, his gaze lingering as though gauging something unspoken. "Well, I'll head out, then."
"Wait, you can't leave yet," Layla interjected, her tone bright and casual. "You said you haven't eaten. Why don't we order pizza and hang out? What do you think?"
"You two have fun," I said briskly, brushing past them. "I've got work to do."
Without waiting for a response, I disappeared into my room and closed the door. The soft hum of their conversation resumed on the other side, but I tuned it out, collapsing onto my bed. I
Opening the binder, I flipped to the section with the barrage of text messages, each one a breadcrumb of Beau's taunting presence. The words stared back at me, heavy with intent, and I focused on them, forcing the tension from my shoulders. Whatever was happening out in the living room wasn't my concern right now. This was. Tybalt curled up on lap and purred as I slipped into what seems to be Ben's obsession.