@smoshvswriting - Tumblr Blog

Smoke and Mirrors

Detective!Spencer Agnew x ShayneToppSister!Reader

Word Count: 18.6k

Summary: A murder case brings a grieving woman into Detective Spencer Agnew’s office — and into his life. As the truth fractures and suspicion shifts, Spencer is forced to confront a far more dangerous question than who committed the crime: What happens when the person you love is standing at the center of the case? Warnings: Crime, Murder, Blood, Grief, 1960s AU, Detective AU, Murder Mystery, Romantic Tension, Emotional Angst, Mutual Pining, Unreliable Narrator

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day your world ended didn’t look any different at first.

Grey light seeped through the thin curtains of your apartment, turning the white wallpaper the color of dirty dishwater. Somewhere down on the street, a bus wheezed to a stop, and a woman shouted at a dog that refused to move. The radio on your kitchen counter crackled out the tail end of a Motown song before a too-cheerful newscaster’s voice took over. You didn’t really hear any of it.

Your fingers were busy with buttons. Top to bottom, mindless, automatic. The soft green of your peacoat was one of the few pretty things you owned. It hung just right, cinched at the waist, skirt brushing your knees. You’d found it on the discount rack months ago, and convinced yourself it made you look like the women in the magazines—put-together, mysterious, a little too glamorous for your neighborhood.

This morning, the color looked wrong against your skin. Too bright. Too alive. You stared at your reflection in the cracked mirror by the door. Your eyes were too wide. Your lipstick was too neat. You hadn’t meant to make it so neat.

Your stomach rolled. For a second you thought you might be sick, right there in the little hallway with the slowly peeling baseboards. Instead, you swallowed, pressed your lips together until they hurt, and focused on doing something simple. Gloves. One finger at a time.

You pulled on the soft leather gloves carefully, the way you always did, tugging them snug so there were no wrinkles. Your breath shook as you smoothed the cuffs down over your wrists. The motion felt ritualistic, almost comforting. Almost.

On the radio, the newsman’s tone shifted. “…police are investigating what appears to be a homicide on—” You flicked it off.

Silence pressed in like cotton on your ears. You could hear the ticking of the little wall clock by the kitchen door. Seven forty-three. How was it only seven forty-three?

You picked up your purse. The leather strap was cool, pressing against your palm through the glove. You hesitated.

You didn’t have to go to him, you thought. You could wait. Let the police handle it. Let some faceless department man assign your tragedy a case number and file it in a metal drawer.

Except you knew how things worked in this city. How quickly people disappeared between folded forms and typewriter ribbons. How fast the world forgot.

And you could not let this be forgotten.

You needed someone who wouldn’t forget. Someone stubborn. Someone smart. Someone with eyes sharp enough to cut. You needed him.

You’d heard his name before, spoken in that careful mix of respect and irritation people reserved for someone who did his job too well.

Detective Spencer Agnew.

You’d already dialed his office once—standing at the payphone on the corner with your gloved hand wrapped so hard around the receiver your knuckles ached. The woman who answered had a nasal voice and a bored tone. “Detective Agnew’s office.”

You’d said your name. The words “it’s my—” had stumbled out. Then you’d lost the shape of the sentence entirely.

The woman’s voice softened a fraction. “Miss? Are you in danger?”

“No,” you’d lied, because you weren’t sure what counted as danger anymore. “No, I just— I need to speak with him. It’s… it’s about a murder.”

That had gotten you a pause, a quick rustle of movement, the faint clack of something set down—probably a nail file. “Come by. He’ll see you.”

Now, standing in your doorway, you wondered if she’d meant it. Maybe you’d arrive and find the door locked, the office dark. Maybe this was all some bizarre dream you’d wake from, and—

You shut that thought down viciously.

You opened the door. The hallway smelled like cabbage and dust and the faint, bitter sting of someone’s cheap cologne. Your boots clicked on the stairs. It took every bit of willpower you had not to turn around and lock yourself back inside.

Outside, the city waited with its usual indifference. The air was damp and cool, full of exhaust and the distant scent of bread from the bakery two streets over. You pulled your coat tighter and stepped into it anyway.

~~~

His office was on the third floor of a building that had been old even before the war. The brass directory plaque in the lobby was half tarnished, names in flaking black paint listing lawyers, insurance men, a dentist, some kind of “export company” you suspected was more glamorous on paper than in reality.

SPENCER AGNEW, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. SUITE 3B

You traced the letters with your eyes, then started up the stairs. Each flight creaked under your weight, the banister smooth from years of hands. Light filtered weakly through the stairwell window. Rain clung to the glass in thin, stubborn streaks.

On the second-floor landing, you passed a woman in a pencil skirt and a beehive hairdo, her arms full of files. She gave you a quick once-over—coat, gloves, too-bright eyes—and her expression flickered, almost but not quite sympathetic. Then her heels clicked away down the corridor.

By the time you reached the third floor, your breath was shallow. Not from the climb. From the way each step felt like it was carrying you toward something you couldn’t take back.

Suite 3B’s frosted-glass door stood half open. The gold lettering on the door was faded and peeling. It read Agnew & Associates, though rumor had it there weren’t any associates anymore, as Agnew’s old partner Alex Tran had allegedly seen enough gore and retired to the coast. Now it was just Spencer and a stack of unpaid bills.

You paused with your gloved hand on the frame. Voices drifted from inside. A woman’s—sharp, amused, the same one from the phone—and a man’s, lower, edged with sleep and cigarettes.

“I’m telling you, if you keep turning away work like this, you’ll be shaking cups on the sidewalk,” the woman said.

“I’ll start with yours,” the man replied. There was the rustle of paper, the clink of ceramic. “This coffee is a crime scene.”

“You need to arrest someone,” she shot back. “We’ve got a live one coming in. Murder case. Sounds real tragic. Try not to scowl at her so hard she faints.”

“Since when do you care about my bedside manner, Angela?”

“Since it affects my paycheck.”

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how your pulse thundered in your ears. You could leave, you thought. Just turn around, walk away, pretend you never—

“Door’s open,” the woman called; her voice carried easily. “You can stop hovering out there, hon.”

You froze.

The door creaked further as she nudged it with her hip, a file tucked under her arm. She was short even in the neat heels she wore, in a navy dress with a wide collar and a brooch shaped like a starburst. Dark hair swept into a neat updo, but her eyeliner was smudged. Her gaze took in your green peacoat, your trembling hands.

“Like I said,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Live one.” She stepped aside so you could enter.

The office was smaller than you’d imagined. A scuffed wooden desk sat near the window, its surface cluttered with files, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a typewriter that had seen better decades. There was a coat stand in the corner draped with a trench coat and a fedora, an old sofa whose springs probably complained, a coffee pot on a side table, a filing cabinet with a drawer that wouldn’t quite close.

And the man behind the desk. He wasn’t what you’d expected either.

Detective Spencer Agnew was younger than the detectives you’d seen in newsreels or on magazine pages. Maybe in his early thirties. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing forearms dusted with dark hair and multiple tattoos, and a faint old scar near his wrist. His tie was loosened, crooked. His hair—dark, wavy, badly in need of a comb—fell into his eyes, which were currently narrowed against the thin rays of morning light.

Those eyes flicked up as you stepped in.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Not the look people gave you on the street, quick and dismissive. Not the soft, pitying look you’d gotten from the uniformed policeman standing over—

You shoved the image away so hard it made you sway.

No, his gaze was assessing, careful. Like he was taking you apart and counting the pieces. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.

“You got robbed?” Detective Agnew asked.

“What, sorry?”

He gestured to your hands. They had been clasped together, except for your right pointer finger rubbing your left ring finger. A nervous habit of yours. You had to clear your throat to answer.

“Oh no, sorry. I’m not married.”

“Alright. You the one who called?” he asked. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

Your mouth refused to cooperate again. You nodded instead. Angela—apparently—clicked her tongue. “She has a name, you know, Agnew. Miss…?” She looked at you expectantly.

“Topp. Miss Topp.” Hearing it out loud felt strange. Like it belonged to someone else.

Spencer’s expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. “Have a seat, Miss Topp.” He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Angela, can you get us some fresh coffee?”

Angela snorted. “From where? Heaven?”

“Somewhere with drinkable water would be a start.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “Don’t mind him,” she told you. “He’s allergic to being polite.” But there was something like gentleness in her gaze as she added, “You want anything, sweetheart? Water? Tissue?”

You hadn’t realized your eyes were wet until she said it. You blinked hard. “I—I’m fine,” you lied. Angela’s lips pressed together, but she nodded and swept out, pulling the door mostly closed behind her.

You lowered yourself into the chair. The wood creaked under your weight. Your knees felt like they might give out, so sitting was a small mercy. Spencer leaned back slightly, studying you. Up close, you could see faint stubble along his jaw, the hollows under his cheekbones, a few lines near his eyes that didn’t seem old enough to belong there.

“Miss Topp,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry for whatever brings you here. Angela mentioned it was about a murder.” Your throat clenched. This was it. The word sat heavy between you. You swallowed.

“It’s my…” You groped for the right shape of the truth, your mind skidding over options. Your tongue picked one with a will of its own. “My—brother.” The word wobbled, but it held. “My older brother. He is—”

Dead. Gone. On the floor with—

Your stomach lurched. You dug your nails into your palm through the glove.

“…he was found this morning,” you forced out. “The police were there when I arrived. They—it looked like—like someone had broken in, but they… they said they’re not sure. They’re asking questions but no one—no one’s really explaining anything and I—”

The words clogged. Your breath started coming too fast.

Spencer’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. He reached into a drawer and took out a handkerchief, sliding it across the desk toward you. It was clean, crisp, white. You stared at it stupidly for a second before realizing your vision had blurred completely.

You sniffed, taking it with shaking fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. His voice was steady, firm but not unkind. “Take your time.”

You pressed the fabric to your face. It smelled faintly of starch and smoke and something like cedar. The inside of your skull felt loud. Too loud. You could hear the clock on the wall ticking. The soft hum of the city outside the window. Your own uneven breathing.

You’d rehearsed this, you realized distantly. Without meaning to, you’d gone over what you’d say, how you’d look, the way your voice would break. You’d pictured this moment in the hazy space between panic and resolve.

Now, sitting under his gaze, it didn’t feel rehearsed at all. It felt like jumping off a building.

“His name is Shayne,” You said, the syllables of your brother’s name wobbled in your mouth. “He—he worked at the paper. The Gazette. Late nights, all the time. He… he lives—lived—just off Sixth, near the river. Second-floor apartment.” Your hands twisted in your lap, glove leather creaking faintly. “The police— they asked me questions but I don’t think—I don’t think they care. Not really. It’s just another body to them.”

Something flared in Spencer’s eyes. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “But I understand the feeling.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on the cluttered surface, fingers laced loosely. “Start from the beginning, if you can. When was the last time you saw your brother?”

You’d known that question was coming. You had prepared for that one.

“Last night,” you said. “Around eleven, maybe a little after. I stopped by his place after my shift. I brought him some dinner.” Your voice steadied as you slid into the familiar grooves of the story. “He was working on something. He wouldn’t tell me what, but he said it was important. That it might finally…” You swallowed. “Finally change things.”

“Change what?” Spencer asked.

“The city,” you said. “He always thought he could—” Your lip trembled. It wasn’t hard to let it. “He was always chasing some story. Always trying to pull something rotten up into the light. I told him one day it was going to get him hurt.”

You hadn’t meant for that last sentence to sound so bitter. Spencer’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp. You forced your expression back to broken instead of angry.

“How was he when you left?” he asked.

You blinked. The room seemed to tilt for a moment. “Fine,” you said quickly. “Tired, but fine. He said he’d go to bed soon. I—I locked the door behind me like always. He’s—he was careful, but the building’s not in the best neighborhood.”

“Did he say anything about being threatened? Nervous? Anyone following him?” You hesitated, watching the way his fingers tapped once against the desk, a tiny rhythmic motion.

“He… he mentioned a name,” you said slowly. “Someone he thought was watching him. I didn’t catch it, exactly. It sounded unique. European, maybe.” You let your brows knit. “Something-to? Or-anto? I’m sorry, I…”

You trailed off, letting the apology fill the space where a more precise answer might have made too neat a picture. Spencer hummed thoughtfully. “And this morning?” You tightened your grip on the handkerchief.

“I went by before work,” you said. The words felt like they were pulling threads out of your lungs. “I usually don’t. Not that early. But I had— I don’t know, a feeling? He didn’t call last night like he said he would. I thought maybe he’d overslept.” Your breath hitched. “The door was… open. Not wide, just a little. Enough.”

Enough for you to see the way the light hit the floorboards. Enough to smell the faint metallic tang in the air. You closed your eyes. The memory slammed into you like a wave. The room in disarray. The overturned chair. The record on the turntable skipped, needle clicking against the same groove. His body sprawled on the hardwood, one arm flung out at an unnatural angle, shirt dark with—

You made a small, choked sound.

“I called the police,” you managed, voice thin. “They came, they… they told me to wait in the hall. They said they’d… handle it. But I heard them talking. I heard them saying things about robbery, about maybe it was—maybe he owed money.” Your jaw clenched. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t. They don’t know him. They don’t know anything.”

You realized too late that your voice had gone hard on the last word. Spencer noticed. You saw it in the brief lift of his brow. He didn’t comment. Instead, he flipped open a notebook and began to jot something down with a short, stubby pencil.

“Did they take a statement?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes.”

“Did you mention the name? The possible tail?”

Your mind flicked rapidly back over the morning. The cramped hallway. The officer with the sagging belt and bored eyes. The questions that had felt like accusations.

“Yes,” you said carefully. “But he just scribbled something and told me they’d be in touch.” You let your voice wobble. “I don’t think they will be. He—my brother—he rubbed people the wrong way. He made noise. He made enemies. I think they just think…” You swallowed. “That he brought it on himself.”

“And you don’t?” Spencer said. The question should’ve been obvious. Still, it felt like he was shining a flashlight directly into your face.

You met his gaze. For a heartbeat, the room narrowed to just that point of contact. His eyes were darker up close, like a storm, with flecks of something lighter near the center. Intelligent. Tired. Relentless.

“No,” you said, softly but firmly. “Whatever trouble he was in… he didn’t deserve to die on his floor like that.”

The words came out truer than you’d expected, even with everything they left out. For the first time, a crack appeared in Spencer’s professional distance. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He glanced down, then back up.

“Nothing you’re telling me sounds like an accident,” he said. “Your brother was onto something. People who hate light don’t take kindly to someone carrying a torch.”

“Will you help me?” The question burst out before you’d finished thinking about it. You leaned forward slightly, fingers tightening on the handkerchief. “Please. I—I know you don’t know me. And I don’t have much money, but I can—”

“Stop.” He raised a hand. “This isn’t a bargaining table, miss. I’m trying to figure out if I can actually do anything for you before we talk about payment.”

You froze, mouth half open. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something smaller. “That being said, my landlord will weep if I tell you I’m working pro-bono.” His tone softened, just barely. “We’ll figure something out.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief washed through you, dizzying, bright. Almost… dangerous.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He nodded once. “I’ll need to see the scene,” he said briskly. “Before the cops trample whatever they haven’t already. I’ll also need whatever you can tell me about your brother’s work. Stories he was chasing. Names he was dropping. People who might want him quiet.”

He tapped his pencil against the pad. “And I’ll need honesty from you. All of it. Even the parts that don’t paint you or your brother in a flattering light.” A chill danced up your spine.

“Of course,” you said. The lie tasted like sugar and smoke. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

Something flickered in his gaze. Not mistrust, exactly. Something adjacent. A wariness that seemed less about you personally and more about the universe at large.

“Good,” he said. “Because if you’re not telling me the whole story, I’ll find out anyway. And I won’t be happy about it.”

Your fingers tightened in your lap. “I understand.”

The door swung open again behind you. “Coffee,” Angela announced, her voice cutting through the thickening tension like a knife through frosting. She carried a tray with two chipped mugs and a small sugar bowl. “One for you, one for Grumpy.”

She set a mug in front of you and one in front of Spencer. She was a little harsher with the latter. “Careful. It’s hot,” Angela said to you. “Probably tastes like tar, but it’s what we’ve got.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around the ceramic. The heat sank slowly into your gloves, a delayed comfort.

Angela glanced between you and Spencer, eyes sharp. “So?” she asked him. “We taking the case, boss, or are we gonna let the boys in blue butcher it?”

Spencer glanced at you once more. For a second, something like a question hung in the air, unspoken. Do I want to step into this? Do I want to invite this storm in?

Then he nodded. “We’re taking it.”

Angela’s smile was quick and fierce. “Then I’ll start a file. Miss Topp, I’ll need you to write down your address, your brother’s, and any numbers we can reach you at. Do you have work today? Someone we’d contact if you don’t show?”

The practical words grounded you slightly. “Yes. I—I work at the bookstore on Willow. Mr. Padilla’s the owner. I told him I might not be in today, but… I don’t know.” Your head felt like it was full of rocks. “I can write it down.”

Angela slid a notepad and pen toward you. Your handwriting looked foreign—tight, cramped letters marching across the page. You listed your own address, your brother’s, and the bookstore’s number. You hesitated, then added the diner you sometimes went to after work, the name of the landlady in your building. You’d never seen your life condensed like this before. It looked accidental. Tangential. Small.

Spencer stood, reaching for his jacket. The trench coat was a familiar shape, beige and wrinkled, the kind you saw in every detective movie. On him, it looked less like a costume and more like a second skin. He shrugged into it with practiced ease, grabbed his hat off the stand, and settled it on his head. Standing, he seemed taller, the lines of fatigue replaced by a focused energy.

“I’ll head to the scene now,” he said. “If you feel up to it, you can come and walk me through what you saw. If you don’t, I can send Angela with you another time and work from the cops’ reports until then.”

The thought of going back there made something in your chest seize. The hallway. The door. The—

“I’ll come,” you said, surprising yourself. “I… I need to go back anyway. There are things I should collect.”

Spencer studied you for a moment, then nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll take my car.” He glanced at Angela. “Can you call the Gazette and see who his editor was? I want to know what he was working on last.”

“On it,” she said, already reaching for the phone. “Try not to get shot before lunch. I made ham sandwiches.”

“I thought that smell was the radiator,” he muttered, but there was a shadow of fondness in it.

As you stood, your knees wobbled. Spencer’s hand shot out, steadying you briefly at the elbow. The contact was light, impersonal. It still sent a strange jolt through you.

“You all right?” he asked.

You nodded too quickly. “Yes. Just… just tired.”

“Then lean on the walls if you have to,” he said dryly. “They’re sturdier than they look.” You managed a small, watery huff that might have been a laugh in kinder circumstances. He opened the door and gestured for you to go ahead. As you stepped into the hallway, Angela caught your eye.

“If he starts brooding too hard,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “just ask him about the news. He’ll rant for an hour and forget he was supposed to be scaring anyone.”

“I heard that,” Spencer called.

“You were meant to,” she replied, unfazed. Her gaze softened as it returned to you. “Hang in there, sweetheart.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded. Then you followed Spencer down the stairs and out into the brightening morning.

His car was an old black sedan with rust creeping along the edges, parked crookedly at the curb. He opened the passenger door for you with an absentminded gentlemanliness that didn’t quite match the rumpled collar and the cigarette already between his fingers.

You slid in, the vinyl seat chilly against the backs of your knees. The interior smelled like smoke, coffee, and faintly of paper.

He rounded the hood and got in on the driver’s side, flicking his lighter with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. The tip of the cigarette glowed, briefly illuminating his face before he cracked the window and let the smoke stream out.

“Address?” he asked, starting the engine. It coughed, sputtered, then settled into a gravelly rumble.

You gave it, each number tasting like metal. He nodded, pulling into the street. For a while, the only sounds were the car’s engine, the rattle of loose change somewhere under the dash, the faint murmur of a jazz station bleeding through the static on the radio.

You watched the city slide past through the smeared window. Corner stores setting out displays, children walking to school in shrieking clusters, men in hats and women in scarves moving with purpose. Steam rose from subway grates in lazy ghosts.

None of it felt real. It was like staring at sets on a soundstage—constructed, temporary, waiting for someone to call cut.

“Tell me about him,” Spencer said suddenly.

You turned your head. “My brother?”

He nodded, eyes on the road. “People become more than names in reports when I know who they were. Helps me remember what I’m working with. And for.”

You looked back out the window, tracking a pair of pigeons picking at something by a lamppost.

“He was… loud,” you said slowly. “Not in volume. Just in presence. He walked into a room and it changed shape around him. He always had ink on his fingers. He’d bring home these stacks of clippings and notes and spread them over the kitchen table like he was assembling some giant puzzle only he could see the edges of.”

You could almost see him there now, hunched over his notes, glasses sliding down his nose, muttering to himself. The memory pinched something deep in your chest.

“He believed in things,” you continued. “Too much, maybe. He got angry about injustice, about people being stepped on. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut even when everyone told him to.” Your lip twitched. “Especially then.”

Spencer made a thoughtful sound. “A man like that makes enemies fast.”

“He made friends too,” you said automatically. “People at the paper. Neighbors. Kids on the block. He’d slip them coins for the movies when he was flush, fix radios when he wasn’t. He… he wasn’t perfect. But he was good.”

Silence stretched for a beat, thick with all the ways that goodness hadn’t saved him.

“I’ll need names,” Spencer said finally. “The ones he called friends and the ones he called bastards.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I’ll make a list.”

“Good.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then added casually, “And tell me about you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Most cases, you want to understand the dead, you start with the living attached to them,” he said. “You’re not just a footnote in his story, miss. You’re a lead.” The word made your pulse leap unpleasantly.

“There’s not much to tell,” you said quickly. “I work. I go home. I read. I…” You shrugged, helplessly. “I’m not the exciting one. That was always him.”

“Everyone’s interesting if you look from the right angle,” he said. The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Even people who think they’re boring.”

You shook your head, a small, automatic movement. “If you say so.”

“I do,” he said. “But we can get into your life story later. Right now, I just need to know if there’s anyone who might use you to get to him. Someone who knew you were close. Someone who might want to hurt you to send a message.”

You stared at the blurred reflection of your face in the windshield. For a moment, something cold and sharp slid along your spine.

“Not that I can think of,” you said. “He had… arguments. With bosses, with sources, with anyone who didn’t move as fast as his brain did. But no one who would…” You let your voice thin. “No one who’d kill him. I can’t imagine it.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. The car turned onto a narrower street, one you knew too well. The buildings grew shabbier. Paint peeled faster. Windows cracked and never quite got repaired. Laundry hung on lines between fire escapes, limp in the damp air.

Your brother’s building loomed at the end of the block. Three stories, once-white brick now the color of old teeth. A uniformed officer leaned against the stoop railing, cap low, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Yellow tape stretched across the front door like a bad joke.

The car rolled to a stop at the curb. Spencer flicked his cigarette out the window, crushing it under his heel as he got out. He came around to your side and opened the door again, offering a hand. You stared at it for a moment, then took it. His palm was warm, grip firm but not rough. He steadied you as you stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Ready?” he asked quietly.

No, you thought. “Yes,” you said.

His hand lingered a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary before he let go.

As you walked toward the building, the officer straightened. “This is a closed scene,” he barked, then stopped as his gaze slid over Spencer’s badge, flashed quick from the inside of his coat.

“Relax, Officer,” Spencer said, voice easy. “Agnew. Private investigations. Your lieutenant knows me.”

The officer frowned. “We don’t really—”

“Gonna make you look real good if I find what you boys missed,” Spencer cut in, not unkindly. “You want that, or you want to stand here and argue jurisdiction with a grieving family member in front of the neighbors?”

The officer’s gaze flicked to you. Your eyes stung. The handkerchief in your fingers crumpled.

He shifted uncomfortably. “I— Yeah. All right. Don’t touch anything. They’re sending the photographer back this afternoon.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stepping on your toes,” Spencer murmured. He ducked under the tape, holding it up for you.

As you followed him into the dim, stale-smelling stairwell, you felt his eyes on you again, measuring, weighing. You wondered what he saw.

A woman in a green peacoat. Gloves too neat. Pain too sharp and clean around the edges. A sister who’d lost everything. A witness. A client. A liar.

You straightened your shoulders, one hand brushing the banister. The wood was rough, familiar, worn by countless trips up and down.

Whatever he saw now, you thought, would shape how he looked at you from this point on. How closely he listened. How carefully he questioned. You felt the shape of your own heartbeat, fast and steady at once.

Upstairs, behind the door that hung open by an inch, the scene waited—silent, still, already starting to fade in everyone else’s memory but yours. And somewhere between those four walls and this man at your side, you were going to have to make sure the story you’d begun this morning held together.

For his sake. For yours. For the truth that could never really be told.

You stepped onto the first stair. Behind you, Spencer’s footsteps followed, solid and steady, the sound of a man walking toward a puzzle he didn’t yet know had been made just for him.

The stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cooking grease. Somewhere above, a radio played softly—tinny and cheerful in a way that felt wrong for a place where someone had died only hours before. Spencer’s footsteps were slow and deliberate behind you, his presence steady, grounding in a way that almost made this easier. Almost.

Your brother’s door stood ajar at the end of the second-floor hallway, just as you’d said. A thin sliver of light spilled out across the worn carpet like a blade.

The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.

A couple of neighbors hovered near their doors, pretending not to stare. An older woman with curlers in her hair crossed herself when she saw you. A man in a work jacket shook his head slowly, lips pressed thin. The officer from outside lingered near the stairwell, arms crossed. Spencer gave him a curt nod, then turned to you.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “Walk me through it like it happened.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. You stepped forward.

Each footfall felt louder than the last as you approached the door. The smell hit you before the sight — metallic, faint but unmistakable, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. Your stomach clenched, but you forced yourself not to falter.

“This is how I found it,” you said, voice trembling just enough to sound real. “The door wasn’t wide open. Just like that.” Spencer nudged it gently with his shoe until it swung wider.

The apartment was small — a narrow living room with a sagging couch, a low coffee table, stacks of newspapers and folders piled along one wall. A cheap lamp lay on its side near the window, shade cracked. A record player sat in the corner, the vinyl still turning slowly with a soft, rhythmic click.

Click. Click. Click.

Your chest tightened.

“He liked jazz,” you murmured. “Always said it helped him think.”

Spencer glanced at the player, then the scattered papers. “Looks like thinking got interrupted.”

Your brother’s body lay near the center of the room. He was on his back, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, the other stretched toward the doorway as if he’d been reaching for help. His shirt was dark with dried blood near his chest.

The sight hit you all over again, sharp and brutal. Your breath hitched.

Spencer moved past you slowly, his gaze scanning everything — the overturned chair, the knocked-over lamp, the scattered papers. He crouched near the body, careful not to touch.

“Multiple stab wounds,” he murmured. “Chest and upper abdomen. Not sloppy… but not clean either.”

“They said robbery,” you whispered.

Spencer’s eyes flicked briefly to you. “Did they say what was missing?”

“Some cash,” you said quickly. “His wallet, I think.”

He hummed quietly. “Funny.”

Your stomach tightened. “What?”

“Robbers usually grab what they can see,” he said. “Jewelry, watches, radios, anything they can pawn quick.” He gestured around the room. “Your brother’s watch is still on. That record player could fetch something. So could that camera.”

You followed his gaze to the small camera on the desk by the window. Your fingers curled inside your gloves.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “Maybe they panicked.”

“Maybe,” he said, but his tone didn’t quite believe it.

He stood and walked slowly around the room, eyes sharp. The scattered papers weren’t random. They were spread in a rough pattern, some knocked over by struggle, but others deliberately pulled from stacks. Spencer knelt by them.

“These aren’t just a mess,” he said. “Someone was looking for something.”

Your heart thudded.

“He always kept things everywhere,” you said quickly. “He was messy.”

Spencer gave you a look. “Messy people don’t sort like this.”

He picked up one folder carefully with two fingers. Inside were typed pages covered in handwritten notes, names circled, arrows drawn between paragraphs.

“City contracts,” he muttered. “Construction companies. Payoffs.” Your breath caught — not with surprise, but with something dangerously close to relief. Good. He was seeing it.

“So he really was onto something,” you whispered.

“Oh yeah,” Spencer said quietly. “Something that’d make a lot of folks nervous.” He flipped another page.

“Look at this timeline,” he continued. “Your brother was connecting payments to a big businessman’s company."

Your nails dug into your palms. “That sounds like him,” you said.

Spencer’s jaw tightened. “Sounds like a motive.”

He stood again, scanning the room. “Any enemies you can think of tied to this stuff?”

“I told you about that name,” you said slowly, hesitant. “The one he mentioned. I wish I could remember it better.”

“That’s alright,” Spencer said. “We’ll get it eventually.”

He moved toward the small kitchen area just off the living room. You followed a few steps behind. The sink was full of dishes. A half-finished cup of coffee sat cold on the counter. Spencer leaned down, inspecting the floor.

“There’s hardly any blood trail,” he said. “Which means he was probably stabbed right where he fell.”

“That’s… normal, isn’t it?” you asked.

“Sometimes.” He straightened slowly. “But usually you see more signs of movement. A stumble. A smear. A trail toward the door.”

He turned to you. “But your brother was right by the entrance.” Your mouth felt dry.

“So maybe he opened the door for someone,” you said.

“Exactly,” Spencer replied. You forced your brows together.

“But wouldn’t he open the door for someone he knew?”

Spencer held your gaze. “Most people don’t unlock doors for strangers in neighborhoods like this.”

A heavy silence stretched between you. Outside, a car honked somewhere down the block. Spencer exhaled slowly. “So whoever killed him,” he said, “was probably someone he trusted enough to let inside.”

Your pulse hammered. Spencer stepped closer to the door, inspecting the lock.

“No sign of forced entry,” he muttered. “Latch is fine.”

He straightened and looked at you again. “Did your brother ever mention expecting company last night?”

You swallowed. “He said he had a source,” you said carefully. “Someone who was supposed to bring him documents.” That was true. Just not the way he thought.

“That makes sense,” Spencer said. “Source comes in, argument breaks out, things turn ugly.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Except…”

Your stomach twisted. “Except what?”

He pointed toward the door. “If there was a struggle, I’d expect scuff marks. More overturned furniture. Broken glass. But most of this looks staged.”

Your breath hitched. “Staged?”

“Like someone wanted it to look like a robbery gone wrong,” he said. “But whoever did this was controlled. Efficient enough to kill him fast.”

He turned back to the body. “And personal enough to use a knife.”

The word hung in the air. Personal.

Spencer crouched again, studying your brother’s hand. “See this?” he said softly.

You leaned closer despite yourself. Your brother’s fingers were curled around something small. Spencer gently pried them open. A scrap of fabric.

Green.

Your heart nearly stopped. It was tiny — barely more than a thread cluster. But unmistakably the same shade as your coat. Spencer frowned.

“Looks like he grabbed onto something during the attack,” he murmured. Your mind raced. You forced yourself to breathe.

“That… that could be anything,” you said quickly. “Maybe from a neighbor. Or a curtain.” You gestured to the dark green fabric by the windows. Spencer studied the small piece, bringing the fabric closer to his face.

“Maybe.” But his voice wasn’t convinced. He slipped the scrap carefully into an evidence envelope.

“You said you found him this morning,” he said casually.

“Yes, a little before seven.”

“And you were working last night?”

“Yes. The bookstore closed at ten.”

“So you went to your brother’s after work around eleven,” he said. “Then went home. Then came back in the morning.”

“That’s right.”

He nodded slowly. “Long night.”

“Yes,” you whispered. His eyes lingered on you. Something shifted. Not accusation. Not yet. But interest. Calculation.

“Do you remember what you were wearing last night?” he asked. Your pulse jumped.

“The… the same coat,” you said, gesturing weakly. “It was raining.”

“Same gloves?”

“Yes.”

He hummed. “You don’t change much, huh?”

“I— I like it,” you said softly. “It was a gift.”

He studied you for a long moment. Then looked away. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll go with the robbery angle for now. But I don’t buy it.”

You released a breath slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “For taking this seriously.”

He gave a small half-smile. “That’s the job.”

Another officer appeared in the doorway. “Detective, photographer’s on the way back. Lieutenant wants everyone clear in ten.”

Spencer nodded. “We’re almost done.” The officer left. Spencer turned back to you.

“You should probably grab anything important now,” he said gently. “Clothes, photos, papers. The place’ll be locked up after this.”

You nodded numbly. You moved toward your brother’s bedroom. Inside, the small space was neat compared to the living room. Bed made. A dresser with a framed photo of the two of you on top. You picked it up.

You both looked younger. Happier. His arm slung around your shoulders, both of you laughing. Your throat tightened. Spencer lingered in the doorway, watching you..

“You were close,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” you whispered. “He was all I had.” The truth and the lie tangled together.

“If you think of anything,” he said softly, “anything at all that seems strange or small or stupid — you tell me.”

“I will.”

“I mean it,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Little things solve big cases.” Your lips trembled.

“I trust you,” you said. Something flickered across his face — surprise, warmth, and something heavier.

“You shouldn’t,” he said lightly. “But I appreciate it.”

You gave a small sad smile. “You’re the only one helping me.”

He didn’t respond right away. Then quietly, “I won’t let whoever did this walk away.”

Your chest tightened. Neither will I, you thought.

You tucked the photo into your purse. As you stepped back into the living room, Spencer glanced once more at the evidence envelope in his hand — the green fabric. Outside, the sounds of the city pressed in again — life moving forward, indifferent. Inside, the first real cracks had formed.

And the game had truly begun.

~~~

The precinct was suffocating. It was louder than Spencer’s office — phones ringing, typewriters clacking, officers shouting names across the room. The kind of place where tragedies stacked up so fast no one had time to feel them properly.

You stayed close to Spencer as you walked inside, your fingers brushing his sleeve once by accident. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he subtly shifted so you were shielded from the bustle, guiding you with a light hand at the small of your back.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. “It’s just… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It always is.”

Eyes followed you. You felt them — curious, tired, some sympathetic, some suspicious. Spencer led you past a row of desks toward a smaller hallway.

“Lieutenant’s letting me use one of the interview rooms,” he explained. “I want you close while I talk to our first lead.”

“Who is it?” you asked.

“A man named Ian Hecox,” Spencer said. “Construction foreman. His company’s been tied to a couple of the contracts your brother was sniffing around.”

Your pulse fluttered. “Do you think he did it?”

“I think he had motive,” Spencer replied. “And means.” He paused before a metal door with frosted glass. “But motive doesn’t make a murderer. People do.”

He opened the door. Inside sat a man in his late thirties with slicked-back brown hair and cracked glasses, wearing a wrinkled suit that looked expensive once. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed gum, eyes hard and irritated.

Ian Hecox.

“About damn time,” Hecox snapped. “I told the other cop I didn’t do anything.”

Spencer gestured for you to sit at the small table along the wall.

“You don’t mind if she stays, do you?” Spencer asked calmly. “She’s family.”

Hecox’s gaze slid to you. Something flickered there. Recognition. Quick. Almost too quick. Your stomach tightened.

“She looks upset,” Hecox said flatly. “Real shame what happened.”

Spencer took the chair across from him. “Let’s start simple,” Spencer said. “You know a man named Shayne Topp.”

Hecox scoffed. “Half the city knows that loudmouth.”

“Careful,” Spencer said softly.

Hecox leaned back. “Yeah, I knew him. He came around asking questions. Made accusations. Thought he was some kind of hero.”

“What kind of accusations?” Spencer asked.

“That my company was paying off some busy business man,” Hecox said, rolling his eyes. “Which is ridiculous.”

Spencer slid a folder onto the table. Inside were copies of your brother’s notes. “Funny,” Spencer said. “These seem pretty detailed for ridiculous.”

Hecox’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have proof of anything.”

“Not yet,” Spencer agreed. Silence stretched.

Spencer leaned forward slightly. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Hecox hesitated just a beat too long. “Couple weeks ago.”

Spencer tilted his head. “Try again.”

Hecox frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we know he had a source meeting last night,” Spencer said. “Someone he trusted enough to let into his apartment.”

Hecox’s gum stopped moving. “You saying that was me?”

“I’m asking,” Spencer said calmly. “Was it?”

Hecox’s eyes flicked to you again. Then back to Spencer.

“No,” he said quickly. “I was home.”

“With who?”

“My wife.”

Spencer scribbled something down. “What time?”

“All night.”

“Anyone else see you?”

Hecox bristled. “You calling me a liar?”

“I’m calling you a suspect,” Spencer replied evenly.

Hecox slammed his palm on the table. “I didn’t kill him! He was annoying, sure, but I wouldn’t risk my neck over some newspaper punk!”

Spencer didn’t flinch.

“Funny thing about anger,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t usually feel dangerous until it’s too late.”

Hecox glared. “You got nothing.”

“Maybe,” Spencer said. “But if you did meet him last night, and if that meeting got heated—”

“I didn’t knife him!”

Spencer studied him. Then, calmly, “You know what kind of knife killed him?”

Hecox froze. Your breath caught.

“I—I don’t,” Hecox said stiffly.

“Good,” Spencer said softly. “Because I didn’t mention a knife.”

Hecox’s face flushed. Spencer leaned back slowly.

“That’s quite the slipup, Hecox.”

The room went silent. Hecox swallowed. “You cops always twist things.”

“I’m not a cop,” Spencer said lightly. “Which means I don’t have to play nice.”

Hecox shot to his feet. “You don’t have anything on me!”

“Sit down,” Spencer snapped. The command rang sharp and cold. Hecox hesitated, but sat. Something in Spencer’s voice made him obey. Spencer lowered his tone again.

“You were angry at him,” Spencer said. “You were being exposed. Your company was bleeding money because of his stories. You show up to scare him, things go wrong—”

“I didn’t go there!”

“Then why did he write your name three times in his notes?” Spencer asked.

Hecox clenched his fists. “Because he was obsessed with me!”

Spencer stood slowly. “Then you won’t mind us checking your alibi.”

Hecox sneered. “Go ahead.”

Spencer held his gaze another moment. Then turned to you gently.

“Why don’t you wait outside,” he said softly. “I’ll be just a minute.”

You nodded, rising shakily. As you passed Hecox, his eyes burned into you. And for just a second—you thought you saw fear.

Out in the hallway, the noise felt louder. Your hands trembled slightly, and you tried to get your breathing to slow down. Spencer stepped out a moment later, closing the door firmly behind him.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said. “He scared me.”

“That’s because he wants to,” Spencer said. “Bullies always do.”

He hesitated. “You noticed the way he looked at you?” You nodded slowly.

“He recognized you. Or he recognized the situation,” Spencer said. “Either way, it tells me he’s hiding something.”

“Do you think he killed my brother?” you asked softly.

“I think he’s dirty,” Spencer said. “But I’m not convinced he’s our killer.”

Your heart skipped. “Why not?”

“Because men like Hecox hire people to do their mess,” Spencer said. “They don’t usually get blood on their own hands.”

He sighed. “And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“The murder felt personal,” he said. “Angry, yes — but also intimate.”

Your pulse thudded.

“Like someone who knew him,” you whispered.

“Exactly.” He looked at you. “Someone he trusted.” Silence stretched between you.

“I trusted him,” you said softly. “And he’s gone.”

Spencer’s expression softened. “I know.” He hesitated, then gently placed a hand over yours. The warmth shocked you.

“You’re doing great,” he said quietly. “I know this is hard.”

Your breath wavered. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m not going anywhere.” The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to. Something twisted warmly in your chest. And painfully.

A young officer approached. His name tag read Officer Evarts.

“Detective, we checked out Hecox’s alibi,” Evarts said. “Wife confirms he was home, but neighbors say they heard a car pull out around midnight.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened. “Car description?”

“Dark sedan. Older model.”

Spencer nodded. “Same kind he drives.” The officer walked off. Spencer exhaled slowly.

“He’s lying about leaving,” he said. “But not necessarily about where he went.”

“So he could’ve gone somewhere else,” you said.

“Exactly.”

“Or someone else went to my brother’s place,” you whispered.

“Yep.” Spencer studied you for a moment. “You’re thinking.”

“I just…” you swallowed. “I keep wondering if my brother knew who it was.”

“That scrap of fabric suggests he did,” Spencer said quietly.

Your heart pounded. “You think it’s from the killer’s clothes.”

“Most likely.”

You forced yourself to look down at your coat. Spencer followed your gaze. Then frowned faintly.

“Green’s a popular color,” he said casually. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

You nodded quickly. “Yes. Of course.” But something had shifted. A seed of doubt. Tiny. But real.

Spencer cleared his throat. “I’m going to run down a few more leads,” he said. “I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Your breath hitched. “You don’t?”

“Not with whoever did this still out there,” he said firmly. “You can stay at my place if you want. Or Angela’s. Somewhere safe.” The idea of being close to him sent a strange flutter through you.

“Your place is fine,” you said softly. He looked surprised. Then nodded.

“Alright.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

“Guess you’ll get to see how thrilling a detective’s life really is. Cold takeout and terrible radio stations.”

You managed a weak laugh. “That sounds… nice.”

As you followed him toward the exit, you felt the weight of everything pressing down. The lies stacking up. The clues inching closer. The warmth of his hand still lingering on yours. Spencer was protecting you. Trusting you. Falling just a little. And all the while…

You were leading him straight into the game.

~~~

The rain hadn’t let up. It slid down the windows of Spencer’s car in long, lazy streaks, blurring the neon lights of storefronts into smears of color — reds melting into blues, streetlamps glowing like distant stars. The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm, back and forth, back and forth, like a heartbeat. You sat in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.

Everything felt unreal. Hours ago, you’d been in his office, shaking and desperate. Now you were riding beside him through the sleeping city, the man who was supposed to find your brother’s killer — the man who had unknowingly been sitting across from one. Spencer glanced over at you every so often, careful not to stare.

“You holding up okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been running on fumes all day.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to sleep even if I wanted to,” you admitted.

He sighed quietly. “I figured as much. That’s why I thought… well, it’s late. I didn’t feel right dropping you back at that empty apartment alone.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you whispered.

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “It’s just common decency.” But you could tell there was more than concern. Something warmer.

The car turned onto a quieter street lined with brownstones and small apartment buildings. Rain pooled along the curb, reflecting the glow of streetlights.

“This is me,” Spencer said, pulling into a narrow parking spot. You looked up at the building — modest, brick, with a flickering light near the entrance. It suited him. Nothing flashy. Just steady. Inside, the hallway smelled faintly of old wood and cigarette smoke. Spencer led you up one flight of stairs, his footsteps echoing softly.

When he unlocked the door, warmth spilled out. The apartment was dim, lit mostly by a lamp near the couch and the soft glow of a streetlight through the window. Music drifted lazily from a record player — something slow and mournful, a trumpet crying softly in the background.

You paused in the doorway. “It’s nice,” you said quietly.

He snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

“It feels… cozy.”

“Give it time,” he teased. “The charm wears off when the radiator starts banging like a drunk at two in the morning.” You smiled. It felt strange — smiling. But it also felt good.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, setting his keys down. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

You slipped out of your coat and draped it carefully over a chair. The apartment felt intimate — not just small, but personal. Every item told a story.

Stacks of case files on the coffee table. A worn couch with a blanket folded over one arm. Books lining a shelf — crime novels, poetry, old detective magazines. And that framed photo. You drifted closer. Spencer and a woman stood in front of a Christmas tree, both laughing, his arm slung casually around her shoulders.

“You look happy,” you said softly. He glanced over.

“That’s my sister,” he said.

“She’s pretty.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that. It’ll go straight to her head.”

You chuckled quietly. “When was this?”

“Couple years ago. Before I started pulling too many late nights.”

You traced the edge of the frame. “It must be nice… having family.”

His expression softened. “It is. Even when they drive you crazy.”

Your chest ached.

The kettle whistled from the kitchen. Spencer hurried to turn it off, pouring hot water into two chipped mugs.

“Tea okay?” he asked.

“Perfect.” He handed you one carefully, fingers brushing yours. A spark ran up your arm. You both felt it. He cleared his throat quickly.

“So,” he said, sitting on the couch, leaving space beside him. “You wanna talk about anything? Or just sit quietly?”

You sank down slowly next to him, holding the warm mug close. “Quiet sounds nice.” For a while, you just listened to the rain and the soft music. Your shoulders slowly relaxed.

“You know,” you murmured, “I haven’t been anywhere that felt safe in a long time.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I’m glad you feel safe here.”

“With you,” you corrected gently.

He turned toward you. The lamp light caught the seriousness in his eyes. “I’ll always try to make sure you are.”

The words made something twist painfully in your chest. If only he knew.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you whispered. His breath hitched — just barely.

“Well,” he said softly, “you don’t have to find out.”

Later, when the clock on the wall ticked past midnight, exhaustion finally crept in. “I should set you up in the bedroom,” Spencer said. “You need rest.”

“And you?”

“I’ll crash on the couch.”

You frowned. “You don’t have to.” The thought of being alone in a strange room made your stomach twist.

“Spencer?” you said quietly. He paused. “I don’t think I can sleep by myself tonight.”

He studied you for a long moment, something a little too close to pity and understanding in his gaze. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

The bedroom was simple but clean — crisp sheets, a neatly folded blanket, a small lamp casting warm light. You hovered awkwardly. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’ll turn around so you can change.”

“Spencer,” you said softly. He looked at you. “Stay.”

Something passed across his face — hesitation, desire, concern. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, carefully, you slipped off your heels, then your dress, folding it neatly. The air felt cooler against your skin, but his presence was warm. You felt his gaze — respectful but lingering.

“You’re… beautiful,” he said quietly, like the word surprised him.

Your heart fluttered. “Thank you.”

He quickly changed, keeping his back mostly turned. When you both slid into bed, the space between you felt too large. The rain hummed against the window. The music faded in the other room. You shifted closer. Your fingers brushed his hand. Neither of you pulled away.

“Spencer? Can I be honest?”

“Always.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this close to someone this fast.”

He let out a soft breath.

“Me neither.” He turned onto his side to face you. “Guess tragedy has a way of breaking down walls.”

You nodded slowly. “I feel like I can tell you anything.” The irony burned.

“I’m glad,” he said quietly. You studied his face — the faint shadow of stubble, tired eyes softened by concern.

“Why are you really doing this?” you asked. “Going so far for me.”

“Because you came in scared,” he said. “Because you’re hurting. And because… I care.”

Your throat tightened. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Already.”

His hand slowly lifted, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You leaned into the touch instinctively. The moment thickened.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“But I want to,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.”

He leaned in slowly. This kiss wasn’t just gentle. It was aching.

Soft lips meeting, pulling back slightly, meeting again — testing, learning. His hand slid to your waist, warm and steady. You sighed softly into his mouth. He deepened the kiss just a little — still careful, still tender. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless.

“I’m not taking advantage of you,” he said quickly. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I do want this.”

He nodded, eyes dark with emotion. “Okay.”

You nestled closer, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat was strong beneath your ear. He wrapped his arm around you protectively. Outside, thunder rolled faintly in the distance. For a moment, everything felt peaceful. Safe. Normal.

And it almost made you forget the blood on your hands. Almost.

Spencer stared at the ceiling, holding you like something precious. “I’ll solve this,” he whispered. “I promise.”

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “I know you will.”

And the truth hung between you — silent, heavy, waiting.

Morning crept into the room slowly, pale and uncertain, filtered through rain-streaked windows. The city outside was quieter than it had been the night before — not asleep anymore, but not fully awake either. Cars hissed over wet pavement. Somewhere down the block a radio played softly through an open window.

You stirred beneath warm covers. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were. Then you felt it. The steady rise and fall of a chest beneath your cheek. The solid warmth of an arm wrapped around your waist.

Spencer.

Your breath caught softly. He was still asleep, his face relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen before. Without the weight of the day pressing on him, he looked younger — softer. The lines of worry around his eyes smoothed out.

You watched him for a long moment. This was dangerous. Not just because of the lie. But because you liked this. The closeness. The care. The way he held you like something precious. A dull ache settled in your chest. You shifted slightly, careful. But Spencer’s arm tightened instinctively.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I’ve been awake for a bit. You were having a bad dream,” he said softly, his thumb brushed small circles against your side without thinking. “You kept saying Shayne’s name. You sounded scared.”

Shame burned behind your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fully awake now. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He studied your face. “Nightmares happen after trauma.”

You nodded slowly. “I just… I hate feeling weak.”

“You’re not weak,” he said firmly. “You’re human.” His gaze softened. “And you’re stronger than you think.”

Something in your chest tightened painfully. “Thank you.”

He smiled faintly. “Come on. Let’s get you some coffee before I head in.”

The kitchen filled with warm smells — dark coffee brewing, toast popping up from the toaster, the faint sweetness of jam. Spencer moved with easy familiarity, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly rumpled from sleep. You leaned against the counter watching him.

“You’re good at this,” you said quietly.

“Making breakfast?”

“Taking care of people.”

“I didn’t always have a choice growing up,” he admitted. “When my dad died, my mom worked a lot. I learned quick.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

“It’s alright,” he said. “It made me who I am.” He poured coffee into two cups.

“You don’t have to come with me today,” he added gently. “I can drop you home first.”

The thought of being alone made your stomach knot. “Oh.” He noticed instantly.

“But,” he continued slowly, “I was thinking it might be better if you stayed with me.”

“Why?” You ask. His expression turned serious.

“If someone murdered your brother, there’s a chance you’re in danger too,” he said quietly. “They might think you know something. Or they might not want you talking to the police.”

A chill slid down your spine. “So you think they could try to hurt me?”

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said carefully. “But yes, it’s possible.”

“I don’t want to be in the way,” you say, your fingers curled around your mug.

“You won’t be,” he said instantly. “I’d rather have you close where I can protect you.”

Protect you. The words wrapped around your heart.

“Okay,” you whispered, a small smile on your lips. “I’ll come.”

~~~

The streets were slick and shining as Spencer drove. Sunlight broke through clouds in thin beams, reflecting off puddles and shop windows. The city felt alive again.

“First stop is Hecox,” Spencer said. “He wasn’t saying something yesterday. Probably because you were there. Didn’t want to say anything untoward in front of a lady.” Your pulse quickened, remembering the way Hecox recognized you.

“We need to get to him first, before anyone else does.” Spencer muttered. Your hands clenched. They already had.

The building was narrow and worn, bricks darkened by age and rain. Inside smelled of damp carpet and old smoke. Spencer took your hand lightly as you walked down the hall.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you whispered. You reached Hecox’s door. Spencer knocked firmly.

“Hecox! It’s Agnew!” Silence. He knocked again. Nothing. A familiar dread curled in your gut.

“He won’t answer,” you murmured.

Spencer frowned. “How do you know?”

You hesitated just a fraction too long. “I just… my brother mentioned he was a heavy sleeper. Hecox was often late for his interviews.”

Spencer shrugged. “Let’s check with the landlord.”

Before you could move there was a crash echoing down the hallway. A door slammed. Fast footsteps.

“That’s him,” you said urgently. Spencer’s eyes sharpened. He opened his mouth to say something, but a scream from the other side of the door cut him off.

“They’re trying to kill me!”

Spencer motioned for you to stand back. He raised his leg and with two swift kicks the door burst open under his boots. Inside the dark living room was Ian Hecox on the floor, a dark assailant on top of him. The assailant had one hand on Hecox’s collar, the other reaching for something in his waistband.

“Agnew, help!” Hecox screamed. “It’s them! They’re working togeth-” A shot rang out, stopping Hecox short. He fell back to the floor, limp.

“NO!” Spencer yelled.” The assailant turned towards Spencer, eyes wild and gun raised.

Time slowed. You saw every movement. Just like before.

“Spencer!” you screamed. The gun fired.

Spencer lunged, throwing you behind him. The bullet tore into the wall. Plaster exploded.

You screamed as Spencer tackled the man hard. They slammed into the floor. The gun skidded away. Spencer wrestled him down, cuffing him quickly.

You collapsed against the wall, sobbing. Spencer rushed back to you. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” you gasped. “No, I’m okay.”

He cupped your face, eyes frantic. “You sure?”

“Yes.”Relief flooded his features. He pulled you into his arms tightly.

“I thought—” he swallowed. “I thought I lost you.”

“I was so scared.” You confess, your fingers clutched his shirt.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured fiercely. “I’ve got you.”

Minutes later you were outside, cool air hit your flushed skin. Policemen and paramedics walked by and into the building, closing off Hecox’s apartment as a new crime scene. Spencer walked up to you, ending his conversation with an officer.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, wrapping his coat around your shoulders.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “That was so close.”

“You were brave,” he said.

“You saved me.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I did my job.”

“But you put yourself in front of the gun.”

He met your eyes. “I’d do it again.”

Your breath caught. “Why?”

“Because I care about you.”

The confession hung heavy. Before either of you could think too hard, you leaned in. This kiss was desperate. Relief pouring into it. His hands framed your face as he kissed you back deeply. When you broke apart, both breathing hard—

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.

“You won’t,” you said softly. As you both walked back to his car, Spencer frowned thoughtfully.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

Spencer just hummed. “It’s just odd. Why would anyone want to kill Hecox after your brother? They weren’t working together. They didn’t like each other.”

“I’m not sure,” You whispered, voice soft. “This might be a small piece in a bigger plot. Maybe someone more powerful is working behind the scenes.” Spencer looked at you.

“You got some good detective instincts, you know?” Spencer said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve shown them.”

You forced a laugh. “I’m just lucky, I guess.”

“Yeah, must be luck.” If only he knew.

Spencer opened the car door for you.

“We’re getting close,” he said confidently. “I can feel it.” So could you.

~~~

The precinct was just as noisy as the day before, humming like a beehive kicked too hard. Phones rang endlessly. Typewriters clattered in uneven rhythms. Cigarette smoke curled thick in the air, clinging to everything. Men in trench coats leaned over desks littered with folders and half-empty coffee cups. Spencer guided you through it all with a gentle hand resting against your lower back.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“I think so,” you whispered. “It’s just a lot. Being back here again.”

“Stick close,” he murmured. “I’m here for you.”

Across the room, a body lay on a gurney covered with a sheet. It was quickly wheeled down the hall and towards the morgue. Hecox.

Spencer stiffened beside you. “He’s dead,” he said quietly.

“Just brought in,” an officer said grimly. “I’m sorry, detective, but the paramedics couldn’t do anything for him. You were too late.” Your knees nearly buckled. Spencer caught you instantly.

“Easy,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice shook. “He didn’t make it.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said darkly. “Someone didn’t want him speaking.”

You and Spencer were allowed back into the interrogation rooms an hour later. The assailant Spencer tackled in Hecox’s apartment was sitting at a table behind a pane of one-way glass. A tall, rough-looking man — long legs stretched out, hands cuffed, face carved with scars and arrogance.

“Name’s Bowe,” an officer muttered. “Low-level muscle. Known to do dirty work.”

“Can I go in?” Spencer asked. The officer nodded. He motioned for you to stay outside. Spencer walked in, slowly. Pulled out a chair and sat down. You watched through the glass, seeing Bowe lean back in his chair and smirking.

“Detective.”

“Bowe,” Spencer replied calmly.

“You’re famous,” Bowe laughed. “Didn’t think I’d meet you like this.”

Spencer placed a newly acquired photo of Hecox’s body on the table. “You killed him.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Bowe said lazily. “He panicked.”

“Funny way of handling panic,” Spencer replied.

Bowe shrugged. “He started yelling. Didn’t wanna make a scene.”

Spencer leaned forward. “You put a bullet in his chest.”

“Wasn’t the original plan.”

“What was?”

Bowe tapped his fingers across the table’s metal surface. “Scare him.”

“Who ordered that?”

Silence. Spencer slid another photo across. Your brother’s apartment. The mess. The blood.

“Funny thing about panic,” Spencer said softly. “It doesn’t make people hire hitmen.”

Bowe’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer stood suddenly, slamming his palms on the table. “You murdered a man who was about to expose a killer.”

Bowe flinched. Then sneered. “Man talked too much.”

“Of course he did. A man about to expose Hecox was just murdered. He’d want to cover his ass.”

Bowe’s eyes flickered. Spencer noticed and lowered his voice. “Who sent you?”

Bowe hesitated. Then sighed. “Damien Haas.”

There it was. Spencer’s eyes darkened. “The developer? Haas pay you to kill Hecox?”

“Just to scare him,” Bowe snapped. “Rough him up a little.”

“But you went too far.”

“He ran!”

“You still pulled the trigger.”

Bowe looked away. “Plans change.”

Spencer stared him down. “Did Haas order a hit on someone named Shayne Topp?”

Bowe shook his head. “Nah. That wasn’t him.”

“You sure?” Spencer asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah,” Bowe muttered. “Haas hated him. Said Topp had ruined him. Wanted him scared. But murder? That wasn’t him.”

“Then who was it?”

“I dunno,” Bowe shrugged. “Haas said it had to be someone close.”

Spencer came out of the room furious. “Haas hired him,” Spencer said tightly. “Admits it was intimidation. Claims he didn’t want Hecox dead.”

“But Bowe said Haas didn’t kill my brother,” you whispered.

“Could be lying,” Spencer said. “Or telling the truth.”

You hugged yourself. “What if there’s someone else?”

“There is,” Spencer said. “And we’re getting closer.”

Your heart pounded.

“Let’s go talk to Haas.” Spencer said, taking your hand and leading you outside.

Damien Haas’ office was on the top floor of his company’s building. It was big, held up by steel and made of only windows. It smelled of expensive cologne and cigar smoke. He stood behind his desk like a king guarding a throne, pulling open each drawer and searching through them. When he saw you and Spencer enter, his face hardened.

“You again?” Haas hissed. “What the hell do you want this time?”

Spencer hesitated. “Mr. Haas, I don’t believe we have met.”

“Not you, I meant her— oh, nevermind.” Haas spat, his hand patting his pockets. “To what do I owe this displeasure, Detective Agnew, is it?”

“If it’s going to be like that then I’ll skip right to the chase. Your man Bowe murdered a man this morning. Someone by the name of Ian Hecox. Ring a bell?”

Haas froze. “What?”

“Shot him in the living room of his own apartment.”

“Idiot,” Haas muttered under his breath. Then louder: “Allegedly, I told him to scare him. I wouldn’t order a man’s murder.”

Spencer looked at you. You were frozen, rubbing your left ring finger again with your other hand. Haas watched you both, his eyes narrowing. “What’s she got to do with this? You know she’s—”

“And what about my brother? Shayne Topp. Did you kill him?” You cut Haas off quickly. Haas just chuckled and turned back to rifling through the contents of his desk.

“You know as well as I do that I had nothing to do with your brother’s murder, darling.”

“As well as I? Nevermind. Why go after Hecox then?” Spencer jumps in.

“I hired him to build some things in town. He was using my money to buy cheap supplies and then pocketed the difference. I needed to teach him a lesson.” During his entire confession Haas’ eyes had not left your face. You felt something sink to the pit of your stomach.

“I won’t lie though,” Haas carried on. “I have no love for Shayne Topp. His more recent investigation into my company has been a thorn in my side for months. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

You felt like you were about to throw up. You swallowed hard. Haas studied your face.

“Is your girl alright, Agnew? She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

Spencer quickly stepped between you and the man. “Watch it. She’s just lost her brother, and only family.”

“Apologies,” Haas sneered. “I am a little distracted today. I seem to have misplaced my wallet.” Haas’ eyes flickered to you. Then quickly back to Spencer. He smiled.

“Well, nevermind, I’ll have to be more careful. Good luck finding your killer, detective. Topp was a paranoid man. He knew what he was doing when he put his nose in other people’s business.” Haas laughed. “He wouldn’t let someone get close enough to kill him unless they knew him personally. Family, maybe.”

You quickly looked up at Haas with that. He was just smiling, an odd twinkle in his eye.

“What’s that?” Spencer asked, pulling Haas’ attention away from you.

You turned to see what Spencer was pointing at. A black suit jacket was laid across the back of Haas’ office chair. A green handkerchief peeking out of the front pocket.

“A gift,” Haas said, almost sounding bitter. “From my ex wife. I haven’t had the heart to throw it out yet.”

“May I see the handkerchief?” Spencer asked, his hand already outstretched.

“Do you have a warrant, detective?”

Spencer said nothing.

“Hmm. As I thought. If you don’t mind, I am a very busy man and I have business to attend to, seeing as my main construction foreman is now dead.”

“Well, thank you for your time.” Spencer grumbled. “We’ll be going. Good day, Haas.”

“Good day, detective.” Haas waved you both out the door. “Darling.”

~~~

“I need to go back to your brother’s apartment.” Spencer told you once you had both made it back to the car. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“Okay.” You whispered. Spencer’s head turned towards you, worried etched on his face.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“Fine.” You gulped for air.

“We don’t have to go back. I understand if it would be too stressful to see your brother’s apartment again so soon. I can drop you back at the office and Angela—”

“No! No, I’m truly fine.” You cut Spencer off. “Haas was just a little… disconcerting.”

“Well, don’t worry, we don’t have to speak to him again.” Spencer reassured you. You just nodded.

Everything felt wrong once you reentered your brother’s apartment. It was too quiet, especially now the police and your brother were gone. The curtains barely moved. Dust hung like thick ropes in the light. The air felt thick and smelt stale. You stood in the doorway, unsure if you could muster the strength to enter yet again.

“Take your time,” Spencer said. “I’m right here if you need me.”

You stepped inside. Again, memories flooded your brain. The laughter, the papers, the argument. And now… blood where his body was the day before. Crimson soaked the carpet and stained the floor boards underneath. Your breath hitched.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Spencer rushed to your side, immediately taking you into his arms. You collapsed into his chest.

“I just— I can’t—” You whimpered into Spencer’s chest.

“I know, I know,” Spencer whispered into your hair, then kissing you on top of your head. “You’ve been so brave. Can you be my brave girl a little longer?”

You nodded. Spencer pulled out back a little to look into your eyes. You nodded again and whispered a small yes.

“That’s my girl,” He placed his hand on your face and wiped your dry cheeks. “Help me look for anything we missed the first time. You know this place better than I do.”

You stepped back, looking around. The living room carpet had an upturned corner, now flattened from your brother’s body having laid on it for so long. The flipped corner now pointed towards the coffee table.

“He staggered first,” you said softly. “Tried to reach the coffee table.”

Spencer paused. “How do you know that?”

Your heart raced. “I— I just pictured it. Look how the carpet is upturned.” You pointed. Spencer nodded slowly.

“Yeah, makes sense.” He walked around the carpet and on the edges of the body outline. “He landed here, between the coffee table and the door. On his back…”

Spencer laid down right on top of the chalk outline. He placed his arm out towards the door, just like how your brother did. He looked for the door, studying it, Then, turned his head the other way to look under the coffee table.

“There’s something under here.” Spencer reached beneath the table and pulled out a piece of paper. The last page of a contract.

“Look!” Spencer shot to his feet. “The signature.” In extremely neat cursive was the name M. Damiam Haas in pitch black ink.

“Oh no…” You whispered.

“Oh yes!” Spencer exclaimed. “Signed Mister Damien Haas. I knew Haas was dirty, just didn’t have enough proof. This looks like the end of a hit contract. We could take this to judge and get an arrest warrant as soon as tomorrow afternoon!” Spencer turned to you, his face was jubilant. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, more than fine.” You hurried to answer him. “I didn’t think we’d solve it this fast.” Spencer just grinned.

“Not solved yet, but so close. Come on, let’s go home.”Spencer slipped the contract into an evidence bag. Then, taking your hand into his, started to make his way out of your brother’s apartment. On the threshold, he froze.

“Spencer?” You asked, ice filling your veins. “What is it?”

“There’s something here, too.”

“What? Can’t we just leave?”

“No, look.” Spencer backed up to stare at the doorway trim. He pointed to the side of it. There, only visible if you looked at it from the right angle, was a fingerprint.

“Someone missed a spot.” Spencer whispered.

Spencer reached into his pocket and started to pull out his fingerprint dusting kit. You grabbed his wrist. He looked at you, confused.

“That must be a police officer’s. The intruder wore gloves.”

Spencer stared. “Right.” A pause. “We can’t be too sure, though. It won’t take a second.” Spencer gently lifted his wrist from your grasp, and started to dust the print.

It only took him five minutes to dust and lift the print, putting the evidence in yet another bag. You decided maybe it was time to ask the neighbors, as you were both too busy the day before. The older man across the hall from Shayne’s apartment answered the door after the fifth knock.

“I saw someone leaving that night.” Mr. McCrary said, wringing his hands nervously. “About 30 minutes after we heard a big commotion coming from Mr. Topp’s apartment.”

“You didn’t check on him?” Spencer asked.

“Oh Miss Arasha said she did. She lives just down the hall. She knocked on the door and Mr. Topp said all was well.”

“Hmm, well then, did you get a good look at who left?”

“It was a woman,” McCrary said. “Well, I think it was a woman. Maybe a man. Had a lady’s coat pulled tight around them.”

“Anything else you can remember?” You asked. Mr. McCrary just looked at you, his eyes squinted.

“Looked a bit like you, miss.” He pointed at you.

“That’s not possible, sir.” Spencer immediately stood in front of you..

“I’m sorry,” the old man said quietly. “Must’ve been mistaken.” Spencer wrapped up the conversation with him. Afterwards, you trembled.

“Well, he wasn’t much help, was he.” Spencer said, returning to you.

“You don’t believe him, do you?”

“No,” Spencer said firmly. “Of course not. Your brother sounds like he was a kind neighbor. McCrary is just mourning him. Grief plays tricks.”

He wrapped his coat around your shoulders. “People see what they expect.”

You leaned into him. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he said softly.

Spencer finished his evening investigation speaking with the rest of the neighbors while you sat in the car. He wanted to corroborate Miss Arasha’s story while giving you a break. It wasn’t long before you both were headed back to Spencer’s apartment.

You sat stiffly in the car, the rumble of the engine the only sound between you two. Soft rain streaked the windows, causing the glow from the streetlights to distort.

Spencer placed a hand on your knee. “You’ve been so strong.”

You froze. “I don’t feel it.”

“You are.” Silence stretched. Then—

“Bowe killing Hecox has changed things.” Spencer said. “Haas looks guilty as hell, the contract page we found only adds to the case against him, but something does not add up.”

“Like what?”

“Some of the clues don’t point outward. They don’t point to a robbery gone wrong. They point inward.”

Your pulse thudded. “Meaning?”

“It’s been in front of us all along,” Spencer sighs. “Someone close. Someone who knew his habits. His apartment.”

“You mean me?”

“No,” Spencer shook his head. “That witness is wrong. There has to be someone else. A partner maybe?”

You looked at him. He met your eyes. “You believe me?”

“With everything I’ve got.”

Emotion welled in your chest. Relief. Joy. Guilt. “Spencer, you’re the only thing keeping me together.”

He reached up, pulling his hand from your face to cup your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The space between you disappeared. The tension gone. Warmth seemed to fill the car. His hand felt your face and slipped into your hand, finger intertwined.

“We are going to solve this,” he said softly. You smiled faintly.

“I know.” Because you already had.

~~~

The rain from that night hadn’t stopped in three days, soaking the city in gray and washing the streets clean but somehow making everything feel dirtier. Neon lights bled across puddles. Tires hissed along wet pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed — a lonely, mournful sound that never seemed to stop anymore.

Spencer sat in his car across from Damien Haas’ warehouse, having received a search warrant that morning. The building loomed ahead, a hulking silhouette of brick and steel. Only a few lights burned inside, dim and flickering like tired eyes that refused to close.

Beside him, you were wrapped in his coat. Your green coat had already soaked though from the torrential downpour. It was too big for you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, the collar brushing your cheeks. You smelled like rain and his cologne — a strange mix of comfort and sorrow.

“You don’t have to do this,” Spencer said quietly. His voice was gentle, but firm — the voice he used when he cared too much.

“I want to,” you replied softly. “I don’t want to be alone.” His jaw tightened.

“If they killed your brother,” he said slowly, “they might be after you too.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. The dark circles under his eyes. The tension carved into his face. The way worry seemed to live in his shoulders now.

“I feel safer with you,” you whispered. Something shifted in his chest. He reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“Stay close to me, sweetheart.”

Inside the warehouse, the air was cold and smelled of metal and oil. Footsteps echoed as officers spread out. Shadows stretched between towering stacks of crates. The warehouse had been deemed condemned quite about a month ago, suddenly halting its usual operations.

Spencer moved cautiously, one hand near his holster. You followed close behind. Your heart beat fast — not from fear. From knowing.

You’d been here before. Not like this. But enough to recognize the layout. The loose boards. The places someone could hide something important. You forced yourself to breathe slowly. To act unsure. To play the part.

A glint of dark red near the floor caught your eye.

A cloth. Half-stuffed beneath a crate.

“Spencer,” you called, letting your voice tremble. He hurried over. He crouched, pulling the fabric free. It was stiff. Stained with dried blood.

“This was used to wipe something down,” Spencer said grimly. You hugged your arms around yourself.

“Like a knife?”

“Possibly.”

“Like the one used to kill my brother?”

“Most likely.” His eyes hardened. “This confirms it. Boys, bring Haas in! He's right in the middle of this.” Or right where you wanted him.

Back at the precinct, tension filled the air like smoke. It took hours, but the cloth tested positive. It was your brother’s blood. Spencer stared at the report for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

“Damn it,” he muttered. You stood beside him, fingers twisting together.

“So it was Haas,” you said quietly.

“Haas hired some muscle. Threatened the witness. Framed Bowe to avoid the blame. But now we have blood evidence.” He rubbed his temples. “Everything lines up.”

Relief softened your features. “Then it’s almost over.” He glanced at you. Something about the way you said it. Almost peaceful.

“Almost,” he echoed. But doubt was a stubborn thing. It crept in when Spencer least expected it.

Later that evening, he stood alone in front of the evidence board. Tacked to the board with red push pins were photos and evidence of the crime scene. Your brother’s apartment. Hecox’s Body. Bowe’s mugshot. Damien Haas glaring into the camera. Old McCrary’s statement.

And your photo. Pinned near the center. Spencer hadn’t put it there consciously. It had just ended up there.

In his hands were the evidence bags. The fingerprint. The last page of the hit contract. And the torn green fabric.

He studied the fingerprint again. It was clear. Precise. The only one to be found out of place in the apartment. Suspicious. Not Bowe’s.

Spencer looked at the signature on the contract. The cursive was delicate. A light hand had written it. Not Haas’.

He lifted the bag containing the green piece of fabric. The fabric was wool. Thick. Not cotton or silk. Not a handkerchief.

The witness’ words —Mr. McCrary’s words— echoed in his head. Someone who looked like her.

Bowe’s confession replayed in his memory. How it had to be someone close.

He remembered what Haas said. He wouldn’t let someone get close enough to kill him unless they knew him personally. Family, maybe. Someone who loved the victim, maybe. Someone who knew his routines. His apartment. His habits. His breath hitched.

“No,” Spencer whispered, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t.”

You were grieving. Broken. You clung to him like a lifeline. You trusted him. You loved him — he was sure of it now. And he loved you.

This was paranoia. The job messing with his head. That’s all.

~~~

The officers brought in Haas just after midnight looking angrier than a disturbed hornet’s nest. The interrogation room buzzed with tension. They had put him in the same one that had held Bowe. It felt appropriate.

Haas sat stiffly in the chair, hands cuffed and placed in his lap, eyes sharp as knives. Spencer stood across from him.

“Haas.”

“Agnew.”

“You lied to me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“I will admit,” Spencer started to roll up his sleeves. “You were somewhat truthful. It made it harder to detect your lie. But you lied all the same.”

“I did not.”

“Let’s go over the facts together, shall we? You hired Bowe. And you ordered Hecox intimidated.”

“Yes,” Haas snapped.

“You also wished Shayne Topp dead.”

“Yes.”

“And blood from Topp was found in your warehouse.”

Haas’ face drained of color. “What?”

“A warehouse that was extremely profitable, but suddenly shut down in the past month. A little convenient, don’t you think?” Spencer slid the evidence bag with the blood-soaked fabric across the table.

“I haven’t been there in ages,” Haas hissed. “I did not put that there.”

“Then who did?” Spencer asked. Haas’ jaw tightened.

“All the evidence is pointing to you, Haas.” Spencer supplied the contract paper. “Your signature is on that page. It was found in Topp’s apartment.”

Haas leaned forward to get a better look. His eyes widened.

“It is the last page of a hit contract. Taken out on Shayne Topp.” Spencer pulled out the chair across from Haas and sat down. “It was found in his apartment. Other contracts were found in his place too. Documents filled with scandal and involving one Ian Hecox. Your favorite foreman. Now dead.”

Haas looked up at Spencer, panic in his eyes. “Soneone is framing me.”

Spencer leaned in. “Who?”

Haas’ gaze flicked past Spencer, desperately looking around the room for an answer. He looked to the walls, the ceiling, and finally, his eyes rested on the one-way glass. A slight smirk crossed his lips, almost imperceivable.

“That girl.”

Spencer’s eyes flickered to the glass, and then back to Haas. Behind the glass, you stood with baited breath, every word Haas spoke filling you with dread. You fled to Spencer’s office, not wanting to hear anymore.

“The one you always have with you.” Haas pointed desperately at the glass. “Topp’s sister, right? She’s too perfect. Always knowing things. Always around.”

“Enough!” Spencer slammed his hands on the table.

“I bet she was the one who found the cloth,” Haas pressed one. “The one in my warehouse. She probably pointed out some details at the crime scene. Some that one wouldn’t know without some training. Knew things she shouldn’t.”

Spencer’s heart pounded. “You’re trying to save yourself.”

“I’m trying to tell you the truth,” Haas snapped. “You’re the one who wanted it so badly.”

“You’re desperate.”

“You care for her,” Haas sneered. “It’s obvious. That’s why you can’t see it.”

Spencer stormed out, enraged. You were sitting in the break room when he returned. The lamp casting a soft light across your face. You looked tired. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

“They’re charging Haas,” he said, breaking the gentle silence. Your eyes widened. You rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his chest. He held you tightly. But his mind was elsewhere. Running. Connecting dots.

“You did good,” he said softly.

“We did,” you corrected. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s finally over.” He stared at you. So close. So warm. So real.

“Yeah,” he said. “Almost.”But doubt curled tighter around his heart.

As you rested your head down against his shoulder, his eyes drifted past you — to the evidence board visible through the glass of the break room.

To your photo. To the fingerprint. To the words: Someone close.

His grip tightened slightly. You didn’t notice. Or pretended not to.

~~~

The city before dawn felt like a ghost. Streetlights buzzed faintly, their yellow glow bleeding across wet pavement. Fog curled low along the sidewalks, rolling lazily between buildings like smoke from a thousand unseen cigarettes. Somewhere far away, a train horn moaned — long and lonely.

Spencer stood outside Shayne’s apartment building, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. He told himself this was procedure. One last check. One final sweep to make sure everything added up. After all, Haas was in custody. Bowe had confessed. The evidence was stacked neatly in a row. The case was practically closed. And yet—

Something in his gut twisted violently. A feeling he couldn’t shake. A whisper that kept repeating the same words over and over.

Someone close. Bowe hadn’t said it casually. Haas had hinted at it.

Spencer exhaled slowly and pushed through the front doors. The hallway was dim, lit by flickering bulbs that cast long shadows along the peeling wallpaper. It smelled faintly of bleach and old wood. Someone had tried to scrub the crime away. But no matter how hard you cleaned, death always lingered.

Spencer unlocked the door to Shayne’s apartment. The hinges creaked softly. Inside, the space was quiet. Too quiet. Evidence tags still marked where blood had been found, where furniture had been shifted, where Shayne’s body had lain. It felt like walking into a memory frozen in time. Spencer moved slowly. Carefully. Like any sudden movement might wake the dead.

The living room first. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. He stopped at the darkened patch in the carpet — the place Shayne had fallen. He crouched. Ran his fingers lightly along the wood that had been under the upturned carpet.

You had brought up Shayne’s odd placement so close to the door on his first visit to the apartment. That he must have opened the door for someone he knew. At the time, Spencer had thought you were trying to be helpful, trying to avenge your murdered brother. Now it felt a little too on the nose. A little too much like a confession. His throat tightened.

“How did you know…” he whispered. He stood slowly and crossed the room. The record table was flush against the wall, the record still on the player but no longer turning. The mirror above the table caught in the pale morning light. Spencer leaned closer.

There. A faint smear along the frame. Barely noticeable. Dried blood. Missed during the cleanup.

Someone had wiped quickly. Sloppily. In a panic. Someone who had loved Shayne enough to try and erase what they’d done. To wipe away the guilt. Spencer’s hands curled into fists.

You had known the person who killed your brother wore gloves. You wore gloves. You had been wearing them the same day you met Spencer, and had confessed to him you had worn them the last time you had seen your brother alive.

You had known Hecox wouldn’t answer the door. Had passed it off as your brother telling you he was a heavy sleeper. But it had been moments before Bowe killed him.

You knew exactly where to find the blood-soaked cloth in Haas’ warehouse. Had been the one to show Spencer, but he had not seen where you pulled it from. Whether it was from a hidden place in the warehouse or from your own pocket.

You had known too much. Always too much.

Spencer took a step back from the wall, turning to face the living room again. He let his eyes wander. The cracked lamp shade. The folded carpet. The blood. Something felt off.

His eyes went to the bookshelf. One book sat crooked, just slightly pushed forward. Spencer’s instincts flared. He crossed the room and pulled it free. Behind it was a narrow hollow space carved into the wall. Carefully tucked inside was the wallet.

Shayne’s wallet. Pristine. Not robbed. Hidden.

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. You had been the one to tell him it was missing. Not the officers. You. Just like you’d introduced so many other “leads.”

Everything was still there. Money. Cards. ID. Someone hadn’t taken it. They’d concealed it in a secret spot. Like a keepsake. Or evidence to be used later. Someone who knew the apartment. Someone who had spent countless hours here. Someone Shayne trusted. Loved. Spencer staggered back a step.

“No…” His voice cracked.

And then there was the fabric. The small green scrap he could picture so clearly. Clutched in Shayne’s hand. The only thing Shayne had managed to grab before dying. Spencer had found it himself. Not you. Possibly the only thing not found by you.

The color was a perfect match to your coat. The same coat you wore when meeting him. The same coat wrapped around you when you cried against his chest. The same coat he’d smelled on you when he held you close. His chest tightened painfully.

Every clue except that one had come from you. You’d carefully guided him. Fed him truths mixed with lies. Let him think he was leading the investigation. But really…you had.

The realization crashed down all at once. Spencer’s knees buckled. He slid down the wall, breathing hard. His heart pounded so loudly it filled his ears.

All the suspects. All the interrogations. All the nights spent chasing shadows. And the killer had been beside him the entire time.

Laughing softly. Crying in his arms. Kissing him. Letting him protect her.

A broken laugh escaped his throat. “My God…” He dragged his hands through his hair. “You played me.”

He felt sick. Not just betrayed. But stupid. Blind. He had ignored every instinct because of how you made him feel. Because he loved you.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. The grief hit him in waves. For Shayne. For Hecox. For the woman he thought you were. For the future he’d imagined — late nights together, coffee in diners, laughter after the case was over. All of it smoke. All of it lies.

Someone close.

It had always been you.

By the time Spencer reached his apartment, the sun was creeping above the skyline. Soft pink light painted the clouds. You were curled on the couch, wrapped in his coat, sleeping peacefully. Your hair spilled across your face. Your lips parted slightly with each breath.

For a long time, Spencer just stood there. Watching. This was the last moment you were still innocent to him. The last moment before everything shattered.

He quietly closed the door. Sat in the chair across from you. Studied every detail. The faint crease between your brows. The slow rise and fall of your chest. The softness of your hands clutching his coat like a lifeline.

“I wanted to believe you,” he whispered. Tears burned his eyes. “I wanted it to be anyone else.” He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Holding onto ignorance. To the woman he loved. Finally, gently, your eyes fluttered open.

“Spencer? You’re back.” You smiled sleepily, but something in his face made your smile fade. “What’s wrong?”

He stood. Walked to the table. Set the wallet down between you.

“Where did you find that?” you whispered.

“In Shayne’s apartment,” he said softly. “In a secret spot only someone who’d been there a lot would know.” Silence stretched thick and heavy.

“You told me it was stolen,” he continued. “You told me before the police did. Just like you told me about the gloves. Just like you knew how Shayne fell. Just like you always knew where the evidence was.” You sat up quickly.

“And the fabric,” he whispered hoarsely. “Found in his hand. It’s from your coat.” Your eyes shifted. Nothing moved, but the light behind them seemed to darken.

“So,” you said, voice void of warmth. “You figured it out.”

The apartment felt unfamiliar in the early morning hours. What had once been warm — filled with late-night laughter, shared meals, soft music playing while you leaned against Spencer’s chest — now felt hollow. The shadows stretched long across the floor, warped by the thin sunlight slipping through the blinds. Dust floated in the air, catching in the glow like tiny ghosts of moments that had existed only yesterday.

The wallet sat on the table between you. Small. Ordinary. Yet it held the weight of everything.

Spencer hadn’t moved it since he’d placed it there when he first entered the room. He hadn’t even touched it again. It was proof. The final piece that had snapped everything into place. The one that had been missing for far too long.

You sat quietly on the couch, keeping his coat around you, the fabric still faintly smelling like his soap and coffee. Your posture was calm — too calm — like someone who had already accepted the inevitable. Spencer stood across from you, hands braced against the back of a chair, knuckles pale. His mind was still racing.

Every memory replayed differently now.

He thought it had been intuition. Or a drive to avenge your brother. Or even grief. Now he saw it for what it was. Control and lies.

“You were never just the grieving sister,” he said quietly. The words felt heavy leaving his mouth. You lifted your eyes slowly to meet his. There was no fear there. Only sadness.

“I built the whole case around protecting you,” he continued, his voice thick. “I was so sure you were the one person who couldn’t possibly be involved.” His chest tightened painfully. “But you were tricking me the entire time.”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by denying it, Spencer.” There was no denial. No anger. Just a quiet acceptance. It made Spencer hurt more.

“I couldn’t understand how you always knew where to look,” Spencer went on, still trying to come to terms with your quick confession. “You always had another suggestion. Another idea. Another piece of information. Always making sure I never suspected you.”

He shook his head slowly. “I thought you were helping me.”

“I was,” you said softly.

“But not the way I believed.”

“No.” The word was barely audible. Spencer closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were glassy.

“Help me understand,” Spencer’s voice shook. “Tell me what I’m missing, because some things don’t add up. Was Bowe ever ordered to kill Shayne by Haas?”

“No, Haas never told him to kill my brother.” The room felt colder. “He was just supposed to scare Hecox.”

Spencer’s jaw clenched. “Don’t lie to me now!”

“Honest! Those were Haas’ orders. They just got… changed.”

“By you.”

“Yes.”

The confession landed quietly but thundered in his chest. The gears started to work overtime in Spencer’s head, trying to find the answer among the evidence. “You turned intimidation into murder?”

“Yes.” The silence afterward stretched long. Spencer dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

“And Hecox?” he asked quietly. “Why the change of heart?”

“He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong.” You spat. “He overhead Shayne and I.”

“Overheard what?”

You looked down at your hands, folding them neatly in your lap, not wanting to see the judgement in Spencer’s eyes. “The plan,” you said softly. Spencer took a slow step closer.

“What plan?”

“The plan to destroy that bastard Damien Haas!” All gentleness from your voice evaporated.

“Why?” demanded Spencer. The word wasn’t accusatory. It was broken.

“Because he fucking deserves it!”

“You don’t even know the man! You met him for the first time during this investigation!"

“Of course it wasn’t.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Spencer demanded, frustration increasing by the second.

“Damien is my ex-husband."

Spencer froze. The word almost stopping his heart. The case, the puzzle pieces, they all fit differently now. They were all jagged. The gears stopped. The game was never fair.

“Haas is your ex-husband. You were married?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you don’t remember me, detective. It was quite the scandal. Of course, dear Damien paid off the papers to keep things quiet. Didn’t want future wives getting any ideas.”

“What are you talking about?” Spencer racked his brain, trying to remember, but the only thing that came to his memory was Haas’ hostility towards you during his first visit with him. And the words he spoke in the interrogation room. She’s too perfect. Always knowing things. Always around. “He left you.”

“Yes,” you let out a shaky breath. “I wanted the best life. He had money. Power. Everything.”

“And insurance policies worth millions.”

“We were going to make it look like an accident.” Spencer’s stomach twisted at your words. “But then my brother dearest started digging. He wanted proof of wrongdoing to make it seem like Damien deserved it. To make himself feel better.”

“And let me guess, he found none.”

You gave a hollow laugh. “Damien was clean. Cleaner than anyone expected, giving his reputation.”

“That scared Shayne, didn’t it.”

“He realized what we were becoming.” Your voice wavered. “He wanted out.”

“And Hecox overheard. He was going to tell Haas.”

Your nod was slow. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you framed him.”

“Yes. I forged documents,” you whispered. “Made it look like Hecox was somehow involved in Shayne’s meddling.”

“So Haas would send Bowe. And then you rewrote the contract.”

Another nod. Spencer leaned back against the table. His legs felt weak. “Your legal name. Is it still Haas?” Yet another nod.

“So the page of the contract I found. It was from you. It was your signature.”

“Yes.”

“And Shayne?” he asked quietly. You took a shaky breath.

“I went to him first, to give him one last chance.” You explained. “I knew him, knew what he was doing. I knew he wouldn’t find anything on my ex-husband. Shayne has too good a heart and wouldn’t have gone through with it. He wouldn’t help me. I begged him to reconsider.”

“And he wouldn’t”

“He said it was over,” you whispered. “That he was scared. That he wanted to do the right thing.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. “I felt like he was choosing Damien over me.”

“You fought. And you killed him.”

Your lips trembled. “I didn’t plan to.”

“But you did.”

“Yes.”

The word shattered the air. Spencer turned away, crossing the room towards the window. He couldn’t look at you. Not with all the weight of the confession crashing down at once. Hecox and Shayne. Two men now dead. Haas. An innocent man framed. The woman he loved. A fraud.

All connected by a web of lies.

He rubbed his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until there were bursts of light underneath them. He stood there, breathing hard.

“You let me hunt you,” he whispered. “You stood beside me while I chased ghosts.”

“I never meant to fall in love with you,” you said softly behind him. “That wasn’t part of the plan. You were just so sweet.”

“Why did you involve me at all?” Spencer demanded, hands curling into fists. “You would have gotten away with it if you hadn’t.”

“You are the best,” You said simply. “And I have to have the best.” He turned slowly. Your eyes were red now, matching his.

“I loved you,” he said hoarsely.

“And I loved you,” you whispered. “Every moment was real.”

“That’s what hurts the most,” he said. His voice cracked.

Silence settled between you like a living thing. Somewhere in the distance, sirens began to wail. Faint. But coming. The consequences finally catching up.

Spencer crossed the living room the three strides, quickly sinking in the armchair across from the couch. His strength seemed to leave him all at once. You just stayed there, perched on the couch cushions. Still as a statue, and still in Spencer’s coat, unable to let go just yet. He didn’t know if he wanted you to keep, wanted it back, or wanted to burn it.

“I should arrest you. You’ve destroyed lives.”

“Yes, I have.”

“And I still…” His breath hitched. “I still love you.”

You silently slithered off the couch, his coat falling to the floor. Something stabbed his heart at the sight. You knelt in front of him. Took his trembling hands, tears streamed freely now.

“This isn’t fair,” Spencer whispered.

“No.” You agree. “But love never is.”

The sirens grew louder. Lights flickered faintly against the walls, red and blue bleeding through the blinds like a pulse. Spencer’s heart lurched. And against his better judgement, he decided to give you a choice.

“This is your chance,” Spencer whispered. “Go.”

You looked at him, searching his face, as if you were memorizing it. “You’re letting me walk away?”

His jaw tightened. “I can’t be the one who cages you. I love you too much. ”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you leaned in. The kiss was soft. Desperate. All the things neither of you could say pressed into the space between your mouths. It tasted like grief and forgiveness and something unfinished.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his lips.

“So am I,” he breathed.

You pulled away first. Then stood. Every step toward the door felt like tearing something loose from his chest. You reached for your coat — your green coat — lifting it from the rack and slipping it on with steady hands. The fabric settled around you, familiar, unmistakable. It covered you like a shroud. You paused, your hand on the door handle. You turned back.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For loving me.”

Spencer tried to speak. Nothing came out. You opened the door. Cold air rushed in. And just before it closed — just before you disappeared — his eyes caught on something small. Easy to miss. A detail his mind snagged on to too late. A jagged edge along the hem of your coat. A place where fabric should have been. Where green was missing.

The door shut softly. The sirens roared past.

Spencer sat there long after, staring at the empty space you’d left behind, his heart pounding not with certainty — but with something far worse. Doubt.

When he finally moved hours later, it was out of habit — the same one that had guided him through decades of crime scenes and long nights. He reached for the wallet. He needed to double check. Just needing to close the case. Just to put things to rest. Spencer turned it over in his hands.

That was when he saw it.

The leather on the front was worn smooth from years of use. Whatever had once been embossed there had been nearly erased by friction — pockets, palms, time. The gold that had once filled the lettering was gone entirely. But not all of it.

Spencer tilted it toward the light. Squinted. There — faint, indented into the leather — were letters that refused to disappear.

D. Haas.

His breath stalled. Slowly, inexorably, memory rose. Damien Haas’s office. All glass and steel and quiet authority. Haas standing behind his desk, distracted — opening drawers, patting his jacket pockets, his attention fractured in a way Spencer had found strange at the time.

“Apologies,” Haas had said. “I seem to have misplaced my wallet.”

Then — almost as an afterthought — the look. First to you. Then to Spencer. A glance so brief it barely registered. A flicker of recognition. Or calculation. Haas had smiled then. “Well, nevermind, I’ll have to be more careful” He had said.

Spencer’s hands tightened around the wallet. If it had been Haas’. If it had left his possession before Hecox’s death. If it had found its way into Shayne’s apartment…

Then the story Spencer had chosen — the one that let him understand you, forgive you, love you — was no longer the only version that fit the facts.

Haas hadn’t just known too much. Hadn’t just been the ex-husband. He had been in the room. He had been close to Shayne too, hadn’t he? Had been his brother-in-law. Someone Shayne would have opened the door if Haas had come to call.

And you? You might have been complicit. Or you might have been convenient.

And what of the finger print? He had never been able to truly figure out who it matched to. He wanted to believe it was yours, believe the easy story you had given him. But hadn’t you worn gloves?

And the knife used to kill Shayne. Where was it? He hadn’t been able to find it. The cloth used to clean the weapon was so conveniently placed in Haas’ warehouse, but the offender that made the stain was nowhere in sight.

Spencer closed the wallet slowly, placing it back down on the table. For a long moment, he just sat there, elbows on his knees, the weight of it resting uselessly in his hands. His chest ached — not with clarity, not with resolution — but with the sickening sense that he would never know the truth. He would never know which version of you was real. Or what version of you he had loved.

The killer. The innocent. Or the woman who had been standing in front of him the whole time.

Outside, the city kept moving. Tires hissed against wet pavement. Somewhere a radio played, distant and indifferent. Life continuing, unbothered by the quiet wreckage left behind. Damien Haas would sleep well tonight. Scott free. Spencer knew that.

And somewhere — anywhere — you were already gone, carrying whatever truth belonged to you alone.

What broke him wasn’t that he might have been wrong. It was that he had loved you enough to stop asking. Enough to choose you over certainty. Enough to live the rest of his life wondering if the last time he touched you was an act of mercy…

or the moment he let the truth disappear forever.

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs