I’m gunning for a promotion to senior detective, which means there’s even more pressure to maintain a spotless image. As one of the few female detectives around, I’m determined not to give anyone the slightest reason to doubt or criticize me. Yet here I am, a lit cigarette dangling between my fingers. I chuckle wryly to myself—so much for breaking the mold. I guess now that I’m a detective, I fit right in with the classic chain-smoking, hard-boiled cop stereotype.

  A car pulls up beside the restaurant.

  I take a deep breath.

  There he is—Bradley—stepping out of his sleek black Mercedes, straightening his tie as if he’s about to charm the judge and jury. He’s got that look, you know? Like he owns every inch of the sidewalk. His hair is immaculate, that dark shade I used to run my fingers through before we became a cliché.

  He flashes that million-dollar smile, and even from this distance, I feel it—a flutter, a stupid, stubborn little skip of my heart. Damn him for still having that effect after all this time, after everything. But then, Bradley has always been good with illusions, making you see what he wants you to see—a perfect reflection in a stained mirror. We’ve been together eleven years now, I should know.

  He pushes open the café door. The bell above chimes his arrival like a herald announcing royalty. That’s Bradley for you, always center stage, even in the mundane act of stepping into a café. He scans the room, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the clientele like he’s searching for someone.

  “Who are you looking for, Brad?” My grip tightens on the cigarette, my nails digging into the filter. I should put it out, stomp on it, bury it under my heel like the lies I’ve stomped out over the years.

  This isn’t just a casual coffee run; I can tell by the way he holds himself, the anticipation in his step. There’s more at stake here than caffeine. I saw the text on his phone this morning while he was in the shower. Now I wait to see who this mystery person is.

  The French café’s enchanting façade taunts me with its alluring twinkle of lights, reminiscent of a picture-perfect Parisian setting. The windows are adorned with intricate wrought-iron designs and colorful flower boxes, while the aroma of freshly baked croissants and coffee wafts through the air. I can almost feel the bustling energy inside, as if the entire city were contained within those walls. My heart aches with longing for what could have been as Bradley is enveloped in the warmth and charm of the host.

  I’m on the outside peering in, like some dime-store detective from one of those old black and white films. Except this is my life unraveling before my eyes. I fix my gaze on the woman seated alone at a table by the window, her silhouette outlined against the soft glow of the interior lights. I haven’t worn a figure-hugging black dress like that in years. Her dark hair flows over her shoulders, much thicker and lusher than my own, in need of a cut.

  I lean closer to the glass, my forehead nearly touching the surface as Bradley strides toward her. There’s no hesitation, no flicker of doubt—it’s as if he’s done this a thousand times. For all I know, he has.

  “Why are you doing this, Bradley?”

  He reaches out, his hand landing on the woman’s arm with such familiarity it sends a shock through me.

  I let out a long, slow breath.

  Time slows, narrows to this one moment. His lips meet hers, and I can almost hear the click of pieces falling into place—a puzzle I never wanted to complete. Missed calls. Late nights. Moments he avoided looking at me. Bradley and this woman kiss with a hunger I can’t compete with.

  The cigarette between my fingers is a small anchor to reality, its warmth contrasting sharply with the sudden chill wrapping around me. I notice how my hand trembles, a leaf in an unforgiving wind, and I clench tighter, the filter bending beneath the pressure.

  “Damn you, Bradley.” The anger curls within me like smoke from a fire about to rage out of control. He’s always been a man of appetites, but I fooled myself into thinking I was the only one who could satisfy his hunger.

  The click of my heels on the cobblestones punctuates my departure, but I can hardly hear the sharp noise above my own racing thoughts, which I know I have to push aside. I can’t afford to be lost in them—not now. There’s a clarity in movement, a momentum I need to keep if I’m going to make it through tonight without shattering.

  I don’t look back at the café window. I always knew deep down that Bradley had secrets, but the weight of seeing them unfold is something else entirely.

  “Just keep moving, Darcey,” I command myself. It’s a refrain that has gotten me through countless crime scenes, through nights when the darkness felt too thick to penetrate. Tonight, it’s a lifeline I cling to as I move farther from the lie of us. Knowing I will have to return home and figure out what we do next. I wish I could just leave him. But there’s children involved, and that complicates things.

  I reassure myself everything happens for a reason.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  ONE

  DARCEY

  My footsteps echo against the gravel as I approach the grand estate. The yellow crime scene tape flutters lazily in the gentle afternoon breeze, standing out against the immaculate white picket fence that encircles the property like a defensive shield. The mansion towers before me as a testament to lavish wealth and opulence. Its high walls obscure any glimpse of what lies inside. The windows are covered with heavy curtains, effectively concealing the interior from prying eyes. The gardens are immaculately manicured, bursting with extravagant flowers and perfectly trimmed hedges. Neighboring houses seem miles away behind tall trees, and luxurious cars line the driveway. The mansion is like a fortress, untouchable and mysterious.

  “Detective White.” A uniformed officer nods as I duck under the tape.

  “Afternoon.” I barely throw him a glance. I’m too busy taking in the house. Very rich people live here. It stands in contrast to the home I just left. There are very few people with homes this large in Florida.

  “Victim is Edward Kane, forty-five years old,” the officer rattles off as we step through the grand front door. “He’s a well-known businessman.”

  “Show me,” I command.

  As we walk toward a sweeping staircase, Officer Denton tells me there are seventeen rooms in the house. All of them have been searched including the library, guest room, family room, kitchen and four separate bathrooms. I’ve never spent time in a house so impressive. Most of my cases involve normal working-class folks in Florida. Domestic disputes, suspected burglaries. This is my first murder as detective in charge.

  “Detective?” He’s looking at me, waiting for me to follow him to the master bedroom.

  “Right.” I focus on the job. My job. To find justice, no matter how big the house or the bank account. There will be parents who have just lost a son. There could be grieving children, loved ones who will need to find the strength to identify a body, plan a funeral and say goodbye.

  I stride down the hallway, my gaze fixed on the closed door at the end. The walls are a gallery of opulence; paintings in gilt frames that I’m sure cost more than my annual salary smirk down at me. Each step on the plush carpet feels like treading on a cloud, or maybe it’s just the air of superiority this place reeks of. Wealth whispers from every corner—priceless vases, sculptures that seem to move with an almost lifelike grace, and furniture that looks too immaculate to ever have been touched.

  “Can you believe this place?”

  I reach for the ornate doorknob, its cool metal intricate with designs that someone probably agonized over. A waste, if you ask me. Twisting it, I push open the door into the scent of old money and fresh blood. It’s a dizzying combination.

  The room is beautiful—the king-sized bed boasts a headboard carved with scenes that belong in a museum. The sheets look like silk. On the walls, masterpieces are spaced with deliberate precision, each light fixture positioned to worship them.

  My attention snaps back to the immediate reality as I see him—Edward Kane—or what’s left of him. His lifeless body sprawls on the floor, his skin pale against the darkening crimson pool that’s seeping into the fibers of what I assume is a Persian rug.

  “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head,” I say aloud, mostly for my own benefit since no one else is here except Denton. A statement to connect myself to the scene before me. My heart beat slows. This is where I thrive, among the clues and questions. I’ve never had the chance to investigate a murder before.

  I can do this.

  The sight of the dead body punches me in the gut. No time for weakness.

  I start with the perimeter, letting my eyes glide over every inch. There’s a Monet, or at least a damn good imitation, turned askew on the wall—a silent witness peering out from its gilt frame. Expensive taste, but what does that tell me? People buy art to hide dirty walls and emptier souls, don’t they?

  A toppled vase lies shattered, porcelain shards scattered across the hardwood floor like a broken promise. Roses, barely wilted, strewn amidst the debris. A sign of struggle.

  My gloved hands hover inches away, tracing the invisible lines of an unseen battle. A scuff on the varnished surface catches my eye—someone slipped here, maybe? Was it Edward, grappling with his killer? Or the murderer, rushing to escape? So many questions, curling up in my mind like smoke.

  “White, you got anything?” another officer calls from the door. It sounds like Miles Durrant, one of the junior officers I met last week. I wonder if he’s as surprised as I am that our first case together is a murder.

  “Still looking.”

  I stand and move toward the body. They say money can’t buy happiness, but I bet Edward Kane thought it could buy safety. Guess he was wrong.

  I take in the gruesome sight. His head rests at a sickening angle, the wound a dark cavern in the lush landscape of his silver-flecked hair. No dignity in death, especially when it’s laid out on your own bedroom floor. Whatever hit him in the back of the head did so several times, no doubt about it.

  “Where’s the weapon?” I scan the floor for anything that could have dealt that crushing blow. Nothing stands out—no bloody lamp, no stray pipe. There’s a distinct pattern in the wounds, and I realize what it is.

  “I believe we’re searching for a meat mallet,” I call out, my voice bouncing off the marble and mahogany surfaces.

  Durrant glances up from his notes, eyebrows raised. “A meat mallet? Are you sure about that?” he asks, flipping through the pages of his notebook.

  I nod, feeling the heavy gaze of the deceased lingering on me. “Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” I reply, attempting to shake off the unease that’s settled in my bones.

  Durrant moves closer, adjusting his glasses to get a better view of the scene. “It’s our first case together, so let’s make sure we’re thorough,” he says, his tone steady but with an underlying excitement.

  I appreciate his attention to detail. “Agreed,” I say, turning back to the work at hand, eager to piece together the story behind the evidence. I crouch beside the body, my gaze darting from the wound to the surrounding chaos. His arms are flung wide, one hand reaching toward the nightstand as if he tried to grab something or someone. Maybe a last-ditch effort to survive?

  I take out my official PD camera, preferring to capture the images myself. The camera automatically timestamps each photo to officially document the scene.

  My hands are steady, despite the adrenaline coursing through me. I start with wide shots, capturing the entire scene, before moving in close. The curve of his limp fingers, the splatter radius—every detail is a silent witness waiting to speak. Click. A moment frozen in time. Click. Another piece for the evidence board back at the station. I work methodically, ensuring nothing escapes my lens.

  I focus on capturing the tiny specks of blood spatter on the wall.

  There’s a mahogany dresser, its surface pristine except for a single drawer slightly ajar. It doesn’t take much imagination to picture hands grappling, desperately searching for something, anything, to use as leverage in a struggle that only ended one way. The heavy curtains are drawn shut; not even a sliver of Florida sun dares to intrude. Large lamps are strategically placed around the room, casting a bright, artificial glow. They stand tall on tripods, their light illuminating the space with a stark intensity, reminiscent of a professional photoshoot.

  I move around the bed, noting the rumpled sheets, the indentation on the pillow where his head should be resting, not… like this.

  It was my boss, Lieutenant James “Jim” Mitchell, who called me and told me to attend to the scene. A body was found by the wife earlier today. On a Sunday of all days. She had been out, and came home to find him in the bedroom like this. So far they told me there is no sign of forced entry. The nakedness, the crumpled sheets. My guess is that our friend here let death waltz right through the door—invited it in, maybe, over a glass of fifty-year-old scotch. I look at the whiskey glass fallen to the ground, its contents spilled out. Only one glass though. No lipstick smeared on a flute anywhere.

  I step carefully, avoiding the blood. But there’s more than just blood; there’s a story here. The rug bears the marks of a struggle.

  “He definitely knew the killer…” I murmur, my mind clicking pieces into place. “Had to.”

  My gaze falls upon the body again, on Edward’s exposed vulnerability. The absence of clothes speaks louder than any confession. A crime of passion? A setup? Maybe both. It’s all too easy, isn’t it? Wealthy man, lovers’ spat, a moment of rage…

  “All right, Eddie,” I whisper to the stillness, “it’s over now.”

  I stand up and take a step back from the body, giving myself a moment to observe the scene from a different perspective.

  “All that money didn’t do you much good, did it?” I murmur quietly, a wry smile playing on my lips despite the grim scene before me. Bradley would accuse me of being bitter. And maybe I am. No, I definitely am—but not about this, not about the wealth wasted on cold marble and empty luxury. It’s the pretense of it all, the façade people like these put up while the rest of us face the harsh reality beneath. Growing up with so little taught me to see through their charades, and even with Bradley, life isn’t as glamorous as it seems.

  With a final glance at the scene, I feel the weight of responsibility settle across my shoulders. I’ve always been good at puzzles, but this one? This one’s going to take every ounce of what I’ve got. And God help me, I won’t let some silver-spoon murderer get away with it—not on my watch.

  I encounter Denton in the dimly lit hallway, the echo of my footsteps accompanying my presence. I slide off my gloves with a practiced ease, attempting to divert his attention by speaking before he can bombard me with more inquiries. As I converse with him, I can’t help but let my eyes wander, taking in the grandeur of the mansion around me. The ornate chandeliers hang like crystal rain, casting shimmering patterns across the walls. I make mental notes of the layout, the lavish decor, and the peculiarities that might serve as clues in our investigation. My fingers brush against the polished banister of the grand staircase, searching for any signs of disturbance. I pause at a series of portraits lining the corridor, each face captured in stark detail, as if they could whisper secrets of the past. Denton’s questions fade into the background as I immerse myself in the scene, piecing together the narrative of this opulent yet enigmatic estate.

  The lieutenant told me one thing on the phone when calling me earlier: they’re treating Mrs. Kane as a suspect.

  “Take me to his wife.”

  He walks down the hallway ahead of me and pushes open a set of double doors.

  * * *

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  BOOKS BY WILLOW ROSE

  Standalones

  To His New Wife

  The Woman He Married

  My Husband’s Mistress

  Detective Billie Ann Wilde series

  Don’t Let Her Go

  Then She’s Gone

  In Her Grave

  Find My Girl

  Emma Frost Mysteries

  Itsy Bitsy Spider

  Miss Polly Had a Dolly

  Run, Run, as Fast as You Can

  Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

  Peek a Boo, I See You

  Tweedledum and Tweedledee

  Easy as One, Two, Three

  There’s No Place Like Home

  Needles and Pins

  Where the Wild Roses Grow

  Waltzing Matilda

  Drip Drop Dead

  Black Frost

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  My Husband’s Mistress (Available in the UK and the US)

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  Then She’s Gone (Available in the UK and the US)

  In Her Grave (Available in the UK and the US)

  Find My Girl (Available in the UK and the US)

  A LETTER FROM WILLOW

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  I hope you loved the story, and if you did, I would be very grateful if you could write a review. I had a lot of fun writing this story, and it’s all very fictional. The only thing I have taken from real life is the story of the shim. It actually happened. A husband in Cleveland tried to murder his wife by placing a shim in it so the car couldn’t stop. Luckily, she just crashed into a building and is still alive. He is now serving eight years in jail. You can read more about that story here if you like: