Chapter 40

Istared at the empty coffee mug, tracing a finger around its rim, the ceramic cool against my skin. Detective Ryan"s words from our last meeting played on a loop in my mind—curt, dismissive, a barricade of finality in his tone when he said, "Case closed." But cases don"t close with questions still clawing for answers, and Nicki"s case had too many to be silenced by a simple suicide verdict.

My phone buzzed against the tabletop, an abrupt snarl of vibration that made me jolt. "Ryan" flashed across the screen; the name was a challenge I couldn"t ignore.

"Detective," I answered, voice steady despite the pulse quickening at my throat.

"Listen, I don"t know what you think you"re doing, but you need to back off," Ryan"s gruff voice cut through the line like a blade, no pleasantries to blunt its edge.

"Back off?" I echoed, feigning ignorance.

"Adam Andersson. He"s been through enough without you showing up at his doorstep, asking questions, and stirring things up. You"ve got some nerve."

The accusation hung between us, a heavy cloud waiting to burst. It was clear; the lines were drawn, and I was on the outside looking in. But the truth had a way of blurring boundaries, and I wasn"t about to let it slip through the cracks.

I squared my shoulders, pressing the phone closer. "I thought I was helping."

"Helping?" His scoff crackled over the line. "By chasing ghosts?"

"Nicki wouldn"t?—"

"Stop." The word was a command, sharp and absolute. "I"ve got the autopsy report right here. It"s suicide. End of story."

"Reports can be wrong," I countered, thumb tracing the rim of my coffee mug, feeling the rough edge where a chip was missing.

"Are you a pathologist now? You think you know better than the professionals?"

"Then help me understand because it doesn"t add up."

Silence threaded through the line, taut and suffocating. Then, a sigh.

"Listen, you"re out of your depth. It"s not what you want to hear, but it"s what the evidence says. Let it go."

The words "let it go" hung between us, a mantra of futility. But acquiescence was a language I never learned to speak.

"Adam Andersson," I breathed into the receiver, my voice steady despite the storm brewing on the other end. "He"s the link, Ryan. Steven"s death wasn"t an isolated incident. Steven and Nicki had an affair."

A crackle of static answered me before Detective Ryan"s anger filled the space. "You have no right?—"

"Two deaths, same circle. It"s more than coincidence." I stared out the window, watching the palm trees sway in the warm wind.

"Christ, you"re relentless," he snapped. "And you"re crossing lines. Adam is a grieving man, and you"re pointing fingers with nothing to back it up!"

"Patterns speak, Ryan. They"re screaming," I insisted, feeling the heat of conviction in my veins. "I can"t ignore them."

"Patterns?" His laugh was bitter, edged with frustration. "You think this is some kind of game? You think you can just waltz in and solve the puzzle?"

"Someone has to," I shot back, my grip on the phone tightening until the plastic groaned in protest. "Because there"s a killer out there, and I"m not content sitting back while they"re free to strike again."

"Damn it, this isn"t your job!" The detective"s voice was a whip, each word lashing out. "You"re tampering with evidence, harassing witnesses. You"re lucky I don"t haul you in for obstruction."

"Then, do it," I challenged, heart thudding with fear and determination. "If that"s what it takes to get you to see beyond your report?—"

"See what? Your delusions?" Ryan"s anger was palpable, a force that threatened to crush through the phone line. "I"m warning you; back off, or there will be consequences."

"Consequences," I repeated softly, almost to myself. "Like the ultimate consequence Nicki and Steven faced?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end, a momentary break in his assault. But I knew, even as we hung on the precipice of understanding, that the divide between us had never been more pronounced.

"Adam"s not grieving. He"s hiding something," I said, each word a bullet of conviction.

"Enough!" Ryan"s voice cracked like thunder, a storm unleashed. "What do you know about grief? About loss?"

"More than you think."

"Your theories—wild accusations! You"re stepping into quicksand."

"Maybe," I conceded, "but at least I'm not blinded by procedure."

"Blinded?" The detective"s snarl was almost visible. "You have the audacity to question my competence?"

"Questioning isn"t a crime, Detective. Not yet."

"Your "investigation" is a joke. What are you really after? You want your name remembered? Some twisted sense of justice?"

"Justice doesn"t twist," I shot back, "people do. Let"s talk evidence, then," I said, the cool edge in my voice a stark contrast to his heated barbs. Sarah"s phone records show calls to Steven at all hours—pleas for help."

"Harassment," Ryan countered. "He was looking to move on. She couldn"t let go."

My fingers drummed on the kitchen counter, keeping time with my racing heart. "And Adam"s financials? I had a good look at them earlier. Lots of transactions that don"t add up. Money flowing like a river between accounts."

"Coincidences. You"re building castles in the sky!" Ryan spat out the words. "I've already talked to him about that; he owes some people money."

"Am I?" I leaned forward, my shadow stretching across the pile of photographs and notes littering the table. Or am I the only one willing to dive deep enough to see the murky truths below?"

"Deep? You"re drowning in your obsession!" His voice rose, a crescendo of fury.

"Perhaps," I admitted, "but even in the depths, patterns emerge. Patterns you"re ignoring. He has a motive. A pretty good one."

"Patterns? Motives?" The scoff in his voice was bitter. "You think you"ve got it all figured out from behind your desk? This is my case."

"Better than ignoring what"s right in front of me."

"Right in front—?" he sputtered, incredulous. "You have no idea what you"re meddling with!"

"Meddling?" I echoed sharply.

"Fantasies!" he yelled. "You latch onto fantasies because you can"t handle reality!"

"Reality?" I pressed the phone closer to my ear, my voice steady despite the storm raging through the line. This hit me hard. Was I really just trying to avoid having to deal with my boyfriend being in a wheelchair? With the guilt I felt for him being in this situation? "The reality is that someone is dead. Two people are dead. And we owe it to them to look at every angle."

"Every angle?" His laugh was harsh and humorless. "You mean your angle."

"Nicki was scared, Ryan. She packed a bag. She called a friend up north and said she was coming to visit. That was her last call, remember? She was scared enough to reach out to anyone who"d listen. That fear—it wasn"t just paranoia. It was real."

"Real?" There was a venomous bite to his question. "How do you know? You weren"t there. You didn"t see her?—"

"Did you?" I interrupted, firm and unyielding. "Or are you just choosing to see what you want to see?"

"Dammit!" The sound of something—a fist, perhaps—striking wood reverberated through the receiver. "Sarah was holding the gun in her hand when Adam came into the bedroom. Her fingerprints were all over the weapon! Nicky felt overwhelmed and wanted to get away. Her lover had just been killed."

"Overwhelmed," I agreed softly. "By secrets. By lies. By someone who wanted her silent."

"Silent…" he trailed off, his anger momentarily diffused by doubt.

"Adam had motive, means, and opportunity," I continued relentlessly. "Look at it, Ryan. Really look."

"Look?" His voice hardened once more. "I have looked. What I see is someone trying to make sense of a senseless tragedy."

"Senseless?" I countered. "Or meticulously planned?"

"Stop!" The word was a command, an explosion of frustration.

"Stop?" My gaze fell upon the photo of Nicki, her smile haunted now by the knowledge of her fate. "No, Detective. We can"t stop. Not until this is resolved. Not until justice is served."

"Justice…" Ryan"s voice faded into a murmur, wrestling with the weight of my words.

"Justice," I affirmed, knowing the risks but bound to the pursuit of truth. "And I intend to find it, with or without your blessing."

My hand slid across the cluttered surface of my desk, fingers brushing the edges of papers scrawled with timelines and connections. "A man being murdered in his home and soon after the woman next door is shot too? And they were involved with one another? It's not rocket science. Besides, I don't believe in coincidences."

"Coincidences?" Ryan"s voice crackled over the line, a sure sign of his patience fraying. "Or are you just seeing what you want to see? Because you're bored or need an escape."

"Am I?" The question lingered between us, challenging and demanding introspection. "Am I the one blinded by what I want, or is it you who can"t afford to see the truth? Because then you'd actually have to do your job."

Silence followed—a stretched, brittle thing ready to snap.

"Nicki"s death, Steven"s—it"s all connected, and you know it deep down. Adam isn"t just mourning; he"s hiding something. Can"t you see that?" I wasn"t pleading; I was stating a fact—one I wished he could acknowledge.

"Enough!" The shout from Detective Ryan was like a gunshot in the quiet. "You have no right?—"

"Rights?" I cut in sharply. "What about Nicki"s rights? Steven"s? Don"t they deserve someone to dig deeper, to fight for the truth?"

"Truth…." There it was again—that hesitation, the softening at the edges of his resolve.

Detective Ryan"s sigh crackled like static, a sound of surrender mixed with anger. "You"re out of line," he ground out, the words heavy with a threat he had yet to voice.

"Perhaps," I conceded, "but I"m also on the right track. And you"re letting your protocol blind you to possibilities. Need I remind you that Steven's body had been moved? How did Sarah move him when she was still holding the gun? And the magazine was under the bed?"

"Protocol keeps order, keeps wild theories from clouding judgment," he retorted, but the conviction behind his words had begun to wane.

"Does it? Or does it keep us from asking the questions we"re afraid to answer?" I asked.

"Damn you," he muttered after a prolonged quiet, his voice a low growl of defeat and exasperation. "Damn you for making me doubt."

"Good," I whispered, almost to myself. "Doubt is the first step toward finding the truth."

"Find your own damn truth," he spat out before the line went dead, a click echoing the finality of doors slamming shut in the corridors of justice.

The line"s dead hum was a stark reminder that I was on my own. I let out a breath I didn"t realize I"d been holding and felt the cool air snake around me, ruffling the papers strewn across the desk. They were scribbled with notes, leads, and connections—all pointing to a truth that seemed to slip through my fingers like water.

"Risks," I murmured, tracing a finger over Nicki"s last photo. Her smile, once radiant, was now a haunting question. It was a risk worth taking, I assured myself. The shadows in the room deepened as the day bled into twilight, my only audience to the silent vow I made.

"Uncover what"s hidden," I continued, my voice steady, even though it quivered inside. "No matter what." The weight of those words settled in the room, heavy, unyielding. A promise to Nicki, to Steven, to the faint echo of justice that still rang somewhere in the back of my mind.

I stood up, stretching muscles tight from tension and too many hours hunched over clues that led in circles. The lamp on my desk flickered slightly, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.

"Truth," I whispered, stepping into the living room where Matt was sleeping on the couch. "I"m coming for you."

I changed the channel to watch the evening news and almost dropped the glass of wine I had just poured.

A man had been shot tonight in the office of his house while hosting a party. And it was in Cape Canaveral, on the same street where the two other bodies had been found.

Coincidence? I think not.