The messages blurred together as I scrolled through them, a chaotic mix of love and loathing that made my stomach churn. One moment, Beau's words professed undying love, dreams of marriage, and a future together. The next, they were venomous threats, graphic and filled with hate. The contradictions painted a picture of someone utterly unhinged, his emotions ricocheting like a pinball.
Tybalt, sprawled across my lap, purred without a care, his warmth grounding me as I absentmindedly stroked his fur. "You're lucky, you know," I murmured, scratching behind his ears. "You don't have to deal with humans and their baggage."
I leaned back, letting my head fall into my hands. The frustration was suffocating. All these messages, all these clues, and still, I was no closer to finding Beau.
"Okay," I muttered, sitting upright and addressing Tybalt like he was my partner on the case. "The trigger was her leaving him. That tracks. But his actions… they're all over the place." Tybalt offered no reply, just a steady rumble of contentment.
"Why burn the restaurant down at night?" I asked aloud, piecing the puzzle together. "If he wanted to hurt her, really hurt her, he'd destroy the house or make sure she saw his handiwork. Everything else—slashing the tires, wrecking Blake's stuff—those were about her. They were personal. They screamed, 'Look at me!' But this?" I gestured vaguely toward the binder on the bed. "This doesn't fit."
Tybalt cracked an eye open, unimpressed by my epiphany. "I know, I sound crazy. But hear me out," I said, chuckling despite myself. "He's all about making a statement, about being seen. So why go ghost now?"
The cat stretched, his claws kneading into my leg as if in mock encouragement. I sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "I'm missing something," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "Something important."
I snapped the binder shut, the sound echoing in my quiet room, and made my way out to the living room. Layla and Evan were still on the couch, now watching what seemed to be another movie. I sidestepped their cozy setup, letting my eyes roll once I was safely out of their line of sight.
"Are you staying overnight?" I asked Evan, keeping my tone casual.
He glanced at the clock and cursed under his breath. "No, I can't. Damn, I didn't realize how late it was. I have work tomorrow." Rising quickly, he grabbed his plate and headed to the kitchen. The sound of running water and clinking dishes filled the space as he washed and neatly put away his plate.
Layla turned, her eyes tracking him with a smirk that made my stomach twist. That look—playful and calculating—was all too familiar. I couldn't believe she'd already set her sights on Evan. She had just been crying over Marcus yesterday, for crying out loud. And Evan? My Evan? I stopped myself. He wasn't mine. Not really.
When Evan came back, he hugged me goodbye, his arms warm and steady around me. A strange shiver ran through me, not unpleasant but not the same as when Graham touched me either. Different. Odd.
"New phone and a new number. Text me and Layla as soon as it's set up tomorrow," he said, pulling away but keeping his tone firm. "You should've handled this before I had to confiscate your phone, but… hindsight."
I nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. "When you're right, you're right." I smiled faintly and hugged him again. "Thank you. And I'm sorry if I'm a bitch sometimes."
He chuckled, stepping back with a grin. "With everything you've got going on, I'd be worried if you weren't."
With that, he turned to hug Layla before grabbing his bag and heading out. The sound of the door clicking shut left an awkward silence hanging in the room, one that Layla quickly broke.
"So… Evan and you are nothing, right?" she asked, her tone overly casual.
"That's correct. Why?"
"I like him." She smiled, leaning back on the couch. "He's super hot, and he's always around. And funny. Did you know that?"
"I did," I replied, folding my arms. "So, what are you saying?"
"Can you find out if he's seeing anyone? Just, you know, ask if he's looking to date?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Layla, you were just crying over Marcus yesterday on this exact couch. Do you ever stop to catch your breath?"
She grinned unapologetically. "I've had a crush for a while, and now I'm single, so…"
"Have at it," I said with a shrug, turning back toward my room. Behind me, her soft laugh followed me, but I didn't look back.
Tybalt stood at the doorway, his ears perked and his bright eyes fixed on the hallway beyond, as though trying to solve some mystery of his own. I scooped him up, his soft weight settling comfortably against my shoulder. He nuzzled his head against my neck, his purring a steady, soothing rhythm.
"Good boy," I murmured, stroking his fur as I carried him to the bed. He was, without a doubt, the best man in my life. No complications, no drama—just unconditional love wrapped in whiskers and a tail.
I closed the door with a soft click, shutting out the world, and climbed into bed. Tybalt curled up beside me, his warmth seeping through the covers as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, the ping of an email dragged me from sleep. I reached for my phone on the nightstand and squinted at the screen.
Graham's name in the sender line made my heart skip. His message was as no-nonsense as the man himself:
Cricket,
We need to meet. When tomorrow?
Graham
I stared at the words, my mind already racing. If he was going to fire me, I plan on confronting him by following me to Wendy's house. Poorly following me at that. I wrote a simple reply.
Graham,
Anytime today. I will be in the office at 8:00. Just buzz the bell and I will let you in.
Sincerely,
Cricket
The morning light spilled into my room as I stretched, groggy but ready to start the day. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and stood, the cool floorboards sending a small shiver up my spine. After throwing on some comfortable clothes, I ran a brush through my hair and reached for the doorknob.
As soon as I cracked the door open, Tybalt shot past me like a streak of fur and determination. His tail flicked in defiance as he padded down the hallway, his usual sanctuary abandoned for whatever adventure he suddenly had in mind.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching his retreat with a smirk. "Alright, rebel. Let's see how long you last this time."
Usually, the second the bedroom door closed, he'd wail like his world was ending, scratching at the wood until I let him back in. But today, I decided to let him figure things out on his own. With a shrug, I left the door open and headed to the kitchen, Tybalt's little rebellion already forgotten as I planned out the rest of my morning.
I descended the stairs to my office, the familiar creak of each step accompanying my thoughts. Once inside, I settled into my chair, the desk lamp casting a focused glow over my scattered notes. Pulling my bag closer, I rummaged through it until my fingers closed around the smooth plastic of a prescription bottle.
I set it down on the desk, the label facing me: Lancaster, Wendy. My eyes skimmed over the details. The medication was called Seroquel. The name didn't ring a bell, so I grabbed my laptop and typed it into the search bar. A few clicks later, I found the answer—an antipsychotic drug.
I sank into my chair, letting out a slow breath as the screen's glow reflected in my eyes. The realization settled over me, not with judgment but with understanding. Wendy's life was a whirlwind—being stalked, living in constant fear, never knowing what came next. It mirrored my own chaos more than I cared to admit.
The prescription bottle sat on the desk, its label catching the light, a quiet testament to survival. Coping took many forms, and for her—and for me—medication was just one of them. It was as routine as morning coffee, as mundane as brushing teeth. A necessity born of trauma.
I glanced back at my notes, the puzzle still far from complete. This wasn't an indictment of her character; it was another thread to weave into the tangled story I was unraveling.
The sharp BUZZZZ jolted me from my thoughts, breaking the quiet hum of the office. I set the bottle on the desk and headed for the door, my heart thudding faintly. As I reached it, the figure on the other side came into focus. Graham.
I paused for a moment, taking him in. His dark hair was neatly styled back, the strands catching just enough light to look effortlessly perfect. The casual button-down shirt, slightly loose with one button undone, framed his lean, muscled form. And those jeans—how could jeans look like they were made for someone? They clung to him in all the right ways.
Opening the door, I felt the breath hitch in my chest. A warm wave of his cologne drifted in, enveloping me. Spiced notes of cinnamon and clove mingled with the sweet undertone of vanilla, creating a scent that was intoxicatingly him. Butterflies stirred in my stomach, their wings fluttering erratically, refusing to settle.
"Hey," he said, his deep voice snapping me back to the present. I swallowed, steadying my breath, and reminded myself that he was here for business. Not… whatever this feeling was.
"Welcome," I said, motioning toward the chair across from my desk. "Please, have a seat. Coffee? I haven't made any yet, but I can if you'd like."
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine."
I slipped into my chair, folding my hands on the desk and crossing my legs, trying to project calm professionalism even as my thoughts spun. What was wrong with me? My pulse was racing, my movements felt too deliberate. This wasn't like me.
"You requested this meeting," I began, keeping my voice steady. "What can I update you on?"
His expression remained unreadable, his tone cool. "I want to know why there's been so little progress."
There it was. My stomach tightened, but I kept my gaze level. "These things take time. I have to meet with people, gather evidence. There's a process."
His jaw tightened, and I could feel the weight of his impatience pressing against me. "I was expecting more," he said flatly, "considering how much I'm paying you."
"I understand your frustration," I replied, my voice measured, even though his words stung. "But this isn't a quick fix. I'm working through 18 months of records, and tracking these details takes focus—and space. It's harder to do my job with constant interruptions or pressure."
He leaned back, his fingers threading through his hair in frustration. His eyes met mine, sharp and unrelenting, as if he could peel back my defenses and uncover everything I wasn't saying. Warmth crept into my cheeks, and I shifted in my chair, folding and unfolding my hands, trying to hold steady under his gaze.
"So," he began, his voice steady but laced with hesitation, "you know it was me the other day."
I tilted my head, keeping my expression calm and neutral. "Yes. I am a private investigator."
His lips twitched into a sheepish smile, a flicker of humor breaking through. "Ah."
"I'd like to think I'm better at my job than to miss something like that," I said, my tone carefully even, resisting the temptation to smirk.
He sighed, his gaze drifting away before returning to mine. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see what you'd found."
"And you want to confront your brother," I cut in, sensing his intentions. "I've seen this kind of thing before. It doesn't help. If anything, it might push him further away—assuming he's running at all."
His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of my words settling in. "So you really think you can find him?"
"I hope so."
He leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of the wood underscoring the quiet tension in the room. As he stretched, his shirt shifted, revealing a sliver of toned muscle at his waist. What were they called… cum gutter? Yes, that's right. I couldn't help my mouth form into a little smile. My thoughts stuttered, my face heating. Seriously, brain? Now is not the time.
"Thank you," he said, his voice softer now. "Keep working and let me know what you find on Saturday."
I nodded. "Will do. I can email you an update."
"I mean, I'd prefer to meet again on Saturday," he said smoothly. "You can update me in person. I'll buy you dinner—it's the least I can do for following you."
My breath caught, and for a moment, words escaped me. Was he... asking me out?
"I don't know if that's exactly professional," I managed finally, my voice wavering slightly.
"We're way past professional after the club," he countered, his tone teasing but not unkind.
Shit. He wasn't wrong. Any girl would probably jump at the chance to have dinner with someone like him. But why me?
"I'm not really the dating type," I admitted, my voice quieter now.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were asexual," he said, his brow furrowing slightly.
"No."
"Gay?"
My cheeks burned hotter. "I'm not. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I just don't date. I have a lot of baggage."
"I work for the prosecutor's office," he said matter-of-factly. "I know about the situation with your ex. I didn't dig too deep because it's not my business unless you tell me."
"Oh."
"Come on," he said, leaning forward slightly. "I've never had to beg for a date before."
I sighed, exhaling the tension I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Fine. Dinner. Saturday."
"Lola's Place," he said, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. "It's the best seafood spot in town. My grandfather owns it—named it after my grandmother."
"I know the place."
"Great. Meet me there at seven."
Before I could respond, he stood, flashed one last dazzling smile, and walked out the door.
I sat back in my chair, pressing my palms to my eyes. Layla is going to have a field day with this.
I sat back in my chair. I wanted to scream and laugh at the same time. Did I just accept a date? I needed to get back to work.