She flips through her notes, and I watch her fingers move across the page with growing dread.
"There's an artist who posts on photography forums," she says, her voice casual but her eyes locked on mine. "Goes by R.B. They share crime scene photography. Has a following online. Ever heard of them?"
The air leaves my lungs, she fucking knows, not everything, but she's connecting dots. The initials. The subject matter and the obsession with death.
I keep my expression neutral. "No. I don't think so."
"You've never come across that name in art circles?"
"There are a lot of artists online. I don't know everyone."
"R. Brennan," she repeats, watching my face. "Same initials as you and the same interest in crime scenes. Quite a coincidence."
"I guess it is."
"You're sure you don't know this artist?"
"I'm sure."
She makes another note, and the silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.
"And you've never been to Arizona?" she asks again.
"No."
"Never photographed any crime scenes there?"
"No."
The questions continue for another twenty minutes. Timeline, alibi, work history, travel patterns. She's thorough, methodical, looking for inconsistencies.
But there aren't any, because the story is true. James and Roxy Brennan are real people with real lives.
Finally, she sits back.
"One more question. Do you know why witness descriptions from the Gary Hollis investigation match you and your husband?"
My heart skips, but I manage to keep my expression neutral and breathing calm.
"I don't know. Coincidence? There are a lot of tall men with dark hair and petite women with long dark hair in the world."
"True." She pauses. "But the descriptions were quite specific. And the timeline places these individuals in the same area where Mr. Hollis was last seen."
"I understand that must be frustrating for your investigation. But I can assure you, we weren't in Arizona. We were in Portland. I can provide evidence to prove it."
She studies me for a long moment, and then she turns off the recorder.
"Off the record, Mrs. Brennan." Her voice is quiet, measured. "My instinct says something's off here. The descriptions match. The initials match. Your interest in crime scene photography is... concerning. And this online artist, RB, they post work from all over the country. The same subjects you just described to me."
I meet her eyes. "I'm not the only photographer interested in dark subject matter."
"No, but you're the only one sitting in front of me right now who matches witness descriptions from a homicide investigation."
"I can't help what I look like, Detective. And I can't help that someone else shares my initials and my artistic interests. But I wasn't in Arizona. I didn't know Gary Hollis, and I'm not whoever you're looking for."
She stands, extending her hand. "Thank you for your cooperation. I'll be in touch if I have any follow-up questions."
I shake her hand, my grip firm and steady. "Of course. We want to help however we can."
