Page 136 of Detectives in Love
She pauses by her Audi, pulling out her keys. Her eyebrows lift.
“Murdered? That same day?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” Her tone is flat. “That’s unfortunate. But what does that have to do with me?”
“Do you remember what time he came to install the cameras?”
“Around noon, I think,” she says with a shrug. “But I didn’t really talk to him. I was on a work call—he came in, did his thing, and left. I just opened the door, signed some papers, and we had a quick chat about how the system works. That was it.”
“Did anything about him seem unusual?” I ask, already expecting the answer.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “To be honest, I didn’t really pay him much attention. Can I go now?”
“Sure,” I nod. “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”
She gives a brief nod and gets into her car. I head back up the road, pulling out my phone to check the next address.
The third witness, Christopher Hill, lives in Arana—the upscale part of Shorewitch where most of the city’s wealthiest residents have their homes.
It’s only a ten-minute drive, and for the first few minutes, I just sit back and try to clear my head. But then, against my better judgment, I pull out my phone and google the news about Xavier and me—just to see how bad it is. The answer: bad. Dozens of headlines, each one more ridiculous and speculative than the last. I close the browser with a sigh and spend the rest of the ride staring out the window.
When the cab drops me off, I start down the street, passing one perfect house after another, each tucked behind its own gate and fence. It’s a quiet neighborhood—the kind where even the air feels expensive. I keep walking, eyes scanning thehouse numbers, until I spot the right one: black iron railings, neatly trimmed hedges, clean white façade.
I pause in front of it, pull out my phone, and send Xavier a quick text before heading in.
Me:Are you asleep?
Then I press the buzzer at the gate. It clicks open almost immediately. I step into the small yard, still patchy with melting snow, and walk up the driveway toward the porch. Just as I reach it, the front door swings open.
A man around my age opens the door, looking at me with a flicker of confusion.
“You’re not the delivery guy,” he says, frowning.
He’s handsome, with soft features, clear blue eyes, and neatly styled hair. There’s something vaguely familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it.
“Are you Mr. Hill?” I ask. “Newt Doherty—I’m with SCPD.”
“Police?” he repeats, glancing over my shoulder toward the street before looking back at me, frowning. “You don’t really look like a cop.”
“I’m with the Partners-in-Crime detective agency,” I say. “We collaborate with the Robbery-Homicide Unit at SCPD.”
“Right…” he says slowly, still frowning. “So what’s this about?”
I clear my throat. “Did you recently have cameras installed at your house?”
“No, they were installed a while ago,” he says, shaking his head. “I just had them repaired—they stopped working. Why do you ask?”
“Well, Cormac Bridge—the Farewell Security technician who came to fix your cameras—was murdered,” I say.
Hill’s expression tightens. “Wait—what?” He blinks, like he didn’t hear me right. “Are you serious? The guy who came here?”
I nod. “He was killed that same day. Possibly not long after leaving your house. Do you remember what time he finished the job?”
Hill rubs the back of his neck, still processing. “Jesus. I mean…not exactly. He showed up late—like, hours late. I had something important that evening, so I just left him here. Told him to leave the keys on the kitchen counter, and he did.”
“So he let himself out?” I ask.
