It was easier that way. Less room for misunderstandings or hurt feelings down the line.
“I can see that,” Hayes said, a thoughtful note entering his voice. He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “I guess I just figured that since we’re stuck working together for the foreseeable future, we might as well try to get along.”
I nodded, turning it over in my head. “That’s fair. So you want us to be friends. Is that it?”
“Nothing more, nothing less,” he confirmed, offering me a smile that probably made old ladies stop him in the street just to chat.
“I have a feeling there’s always something more with you, Hayes,” I mused. But then again, maybe I was wrong. I hadthe unfortunate habit of reading too much into things, which, while great for detective work, was significantly less helpful when dealing with normal human interactions. I should at least try to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I continued to watch him over the rim of my glass, feeling the weight of the alcohol starting to settle into my bones, making everything softer around the edges. “Alright then,friend. Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”
3
Tom
Alfred Thorne.
Sixty-five years old.
Retired history teacher.
He carried himself with the warmth of an old storybook character—the kind of man who always had butterscotch candies in his pocket, ready to press into a child’s palm with a conspiratorial wink. He sat in the same pew at church every Sunday, bowing his head in reverence. After the service, he’d swing by Harlowe’s Café, a cozy little spot where all the staff knew his usual order by heart: one blueberry muffin and a black coffee, no cream, no sugar. He’d claim the table closest to the window and crack open a book, usually a dense and weathered volume on the history of empires long since fallen.
Today, however, there’d been a small deviation in his routine. He passed on the muffin and stuck with his usual black coffee.
The bell above the entrance chimed as a gust of cold air swept in, flipping the pages of his book. Alfred Thorne glanced up at the disruption.
A woman stepped into the coffee shop, holding a littlegirl’s hand. Her pink rain boots, dotted with white daisies, matched the backpack slung over her shoulder. She giggled at something the woman said, her small hands clinging to the edge of the table as she climbed onto a chair.
Alfred Thorne’s fingers stilled over the book. His lips twitched, in a way that couldn’t quite be called a smile.
Beneath that grandfatherly facade, the vilest kind of predator watched and waited.
“What poor person are you creeping on now, Hayes?”
For a moment, I thought I was imagining things. But no—that wasDetective Sawyer’s voice, cutting through the low hum of the coffee shop like a blade.
I tore my gaze away from Alfred Thorne, and there she was—standing a few feet away, hands tucked into her coat, dark hair damp, a few stray strands clinging to her cheek. Outside, the storm raged on, wind driving the rain against the windows in relentless sheets. Inside the coffee shop, however, the heat grew uncomfortably warm.
Thrown off balance completely, all I could do was stare at her like an idiot.
“Excuse me?” I managed to ask, once my neurons started firing properly again.
Detective Sawyer’s mouth quirked at the corner. “What? You think I don’t recognize that look in someone’s eyes? Intense, sharp,ravenous. It’s obvious, Hayes. You’re on a prowl.”
She closed the distance between us, one step at a time, until she was standing close enough that I could count the raindrops clinging to her lashes.
Moments like these made me think she had unraveled me completely.
She braced both hands on the table and leaned forward. “So tell me then—who’s the lucky woman that caught your attention?”
Or maybe not.
The pressure coiling inside me loosened all at once, leaving me light-headed.
Of course, she wasn’t onto me. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she were.
“No one,” I answered, for lack of anything better to say.
