Page 132 of Detectives in Love
We pass a carpeted staircase winding up to the second floor, then step into a cozy living room with a red rug, gold-framed paintings, a pair of armchairs, and a lit fireplace.
Peak old-man living.
“I know,” I say, evasive. “Just double-checking a few things.”
“They never told me what happened, by the way,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. “I hope you’re not about to tell me it’s some scam company that’s been robbing houses.”
“Nothing like that,” I say, shaking my head as I settle into the chair. “But one of their employees—Cormac Bridge—was murdered the day he came to install your cameras. Do you remember him?”
“Murdered?” Mr. Colfridge frowns as he sits into the armchair across from me. “The man who did the installation?”
“That’s right. Do you remember what time he was here?”
“Around half past ten in the morning. He was quick—done in about an hour.”
“Did he seem off to you in any way?” I ask.
The man shakes his head, thinking. “No… I didn’t notice anything odd. But—who killed him?”
“We don’t know yet,” I say. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” He nods slowly, still processing. “He seemed like a normal guy. He was in a good mood, actually. Cracked a few jokes, told me he’d just come back from a trip to Japan. I’m sorry—I don’t think I have anything else that could help.” He falls quiet for a beat, his gaze drifting toward the fireplace. The room hums with silence, filled only by the soft crackle of burning logs. Then, almost like he’s remembered something, he adds, “Would you like some coffee and a muffin? I made a batch earlier, but I live alone—can’t finish them by myself.”
“Oh—thank you, but I’ve got to get going,” I say with a smile.
“I can give you a couple to go,” he offers, smiling—and there’s a warmth in the way his gaze lingers. “Chocolate chip. I’m actually a pretty decent baker, if I say so myself.” He blinks, studying my face like he’s waiting for a yes.
“Alright,” I say, mostly because I’d feel bad turning him down. “I’ll take one to go.”
He lights up and hurries off to the kitchen. I move to the hallway, standing there awkwardly until he returns a minute later with a Tupperware container in hand. Looks like there are at least five muffins inside.
“That’s way too much for me,” I start, but he shakes his head.
“Please, take them,” he says, gently pushing the container into my hands. “They’re dangerously addictive, and if I keep them, I’ll just end up eating every last one.”
“Thanks,” I say, eyeing the container. “But let me at least return it—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts in with a wave. “You can keep it, if you want. Or toss it in the recycling.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” He smiles again, eyes warm and crinkled at the corners.
“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “I should get going now—thanks again.”
“Just in case,” Mr. Colfridge says, pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to me. “If you need anything else, just give me a call.”
“Thanks,” I reply, taking it as he opens the door.
Outside, I tuck the Tupperware under my arm and pull out my phone to order a taxi to the next address. Then I wait on the curb, watching the street.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
I glance at the screen. Monica.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hello, little brother,” she says, her tone already suspicious.
