Carlson studied me sideways. "Try not to have a stroke from the shock. Yes, I notice things too. Just because I don't approach every case like I'm cataloging a damn museum doesn't mean I miss details."
I shrugged. "People reveal themselves in small ways. The trick is figuring out which details matter." A glance in his direction. "Mark Donnelly has a history of jealousy and aggression. Miss Bennett trained herself to manage his emotions, even at the expense of truth."
It was a perceptive read. Aligned with my own observations. Framed in psychological terms I wouldn't have articulated.
He's smarter than he lets on.
I gave him a curt nod. The closest thing to approval I could offer.
For a moment, surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled. Not the practiced, charming version he used on witnesses. Something smaller. More genuine. "Was that almost a compliment, Detective Hawley? Should I check if hell froze over?"
"Don't get used to it." Already uncomfortable with the momentary truce.
"We should check if the hospital has any updates."
"Right behind you, Detective." A hint of something that sounded almost like respect.
A crash of arguments outside the patio cut through the patter of rain. I turned sharply toward the sound. Instinct moved my palm to the holster. Constable Doyle's voice rose above the others. Authoritative but strained. "Sir, you need to stay back. This is a crime scene."
Carlson's gaze met mine. Without a word, we both moved toward the commotion.
Outside, the rain had thickened to a steady downpour. Three officers were restraining a man who struggled against their grip. Soaked through. Clothes plastered to a thin frame. Dark hair hanging over his face. Blood smeared across his palms and the front of his white shirt. Diluted pink by water.
Kyle O'Hara. The suspect had returned.
"I didn't mean to hurt him." His voice cracked as the officers held him back. Wild desperation filled his gaze. "I panicked. I just wanted to know if he's okay."
I stepped forward. Movements deliberate and controlled. "Secure him. Careful, he's injured."
"Oh, excellent observation." The muttering was just loud enough for me to hear.
I shot Carlson a withering stare. This was neither the time nor the place.
Deep lacerations split the suspect's palms. Consistent with gripping the broken bottle. Blood mixed with water dripped steadily onto the pavement. Self-inflicted defensive wounds. Common when an improvised weapon breaks during use.
"We need paramedics," I called over my shoulder. Then turned back to O'Hara. "You're under arrest for aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
I kept reciting his rights as the officers secured his wrists with plastic restraints. Loose enough to avoid aggravating the injuries. O'Hara didn't resist. His body slumped in surrender.
Carlson moved forward. Surprised me by placing a palm on O'Hara's shoulder. "Let's get you out of the weather." Calm but firm. He guided O'Hara toward a covered area beside the restaurant. Away from the small crowd that had gathered with phones raised, recording the situation.
Smart move. Limiting public exposure. Preventing a social media circus. Even if his smooth takeover rankled.
The paramedics arrived promptly. They opened their kit to treat the lacerations. I positioned myself nearby. Watched them clean and bandage the wounds. O'Hara winced but stayed compliant. His earlier agitation gave way to a hollow resignation.
I stepped closer. Studied the man who'd returned to the scene of his own crime. Blood and rain. Panic and guilt. The pieces were all there. But the picture they formed wasn't complete.
"Mr. O'Hara." My voice cut through the drum of rain. "Tell me what happened tonight."
He raised his head. Water dripped from his hair despite the shelter. His eyes desperate. Broken. Pleading.
"I didn't go there looking for trouble. Lauren texted me earlier, said she wanted to talk. I shouldn't have gone."
Chapter 6: A Concession Over a Drink
Luke
The confession was just beginning.
