When a wealthy donor drops dead at her charity gala, Fox Theater fundraiser Bunny Beaudoin finds herself thrust into a murder investigation that threatens everything she's built. Teaming up with enigmatic private investigator Dash O'Neill, Bunny discovers the victim was poisoned—and he's not the killer's first target. As bodies pile up and the theater's reputation hangs in the balance, Bunny and Dash navigate a web of secrets, lies, and dangerous attraction. Between dodging a suspicious police chief and uncovering a conspiracy that reaches the highest levels of Magnolia Heights society, Bunny must decide how far she's willing to go for justice—and whether she can trust the mysterious man who's stolen her heart. In a world where everyone has something to hide, the deadliest secret might be falling in love with your partner in crime.
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Onions sizzled in olive oil, the scent filling Bunny’s kitchen as evening sunshine filtered through the roman blinds. Sleepy shadows grew long across the hardwood floors. A jewel green bottle of Chianti lay open on the counter. The generously filled crystal glass sat next to it, casting ruby splinters across the marble. The deep red liquid caught the light as Bunny took another sip.
“You know what Mr. Darcy?” She addressed the golden retriever sprawled across the kitchen floor, his chin resting on his paws as he watched her cook patiently.
“Men are trash,” Another sip, “Present company excluded, obviously.”
Mr. Darcy’s tail thumped once against the floor, a diplomatic response. She added the ground beef to the pan, the meat hitting the hot oil with an aggressive hiss that matched her mood. The wooden spoon in her hand became a weapon as she broke apart the meat, imagining it was a certain someone’s smug, handsome face.
“I mean, who does that? Who lets someone think they’re partners when really they’re just being used for information?” She took another sip of wine, larger this time.
“And the worst part– the absolute worst part– is that I actually started to like him.”
Mr. Darcy lifted his head, brown eyes regarding her steadily.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Bunny, you should have seen the red flags. Bunny, mysterious men who show up at morgues are obviously trouble.’ But you know what? He was charming! And smart! And he had those stupid eyes that made me forget I have a functioning brain!”
She added crushed tomatoes to the pan, red sauce splattering across her grey Holy Oaks alumni hoodie. The stain bloomed across the cotton like a Rorschach test, and she stared at it with the intensity of someone trying to divine meaning from chaos.
“And now I’m talking to you like some kind of…” She gestured vaguely with her wine glass, searching for the right comparison, “Like some kind of crazy cat lady, except with a dog and better wine.”
Mr. Darcy’s tail wagged more enthusiastically, either at the mention of his species or perhaps sensing that dinner preparations were progressing favorably. Bunny added herbs to the sauce; basil, oregano, a bay leaf that she crushed between her fingers with vindictive satisfaction. The kitchen filled with the rich, comforting smell of home cooking, the kind of meal that promised to fill the hollow spaces that disappointment left behind.
“The thing is,” She continued, swirling the wine in her glass and noting with mild alarm that she’d consumed more than intended, “I actually thought we had something. Not romantically. Like we were a team.”
She laughed, the sharp sound incongruent in the cozy kitchen air.
“Team. Right. More like Batman and Robin, except Robin didn’t know she was Robin and Batman was using her to get information about the Joker.”
The analogy collapsed under its own complexity, but Mr. Darcy seemed to understand the general sentiment. He padded over to his water bowl, lapping delicately before returning to his post near the stove.
“You’re right,” Bunny told him, stirring the sauce as it began to simmer, “I should just focus on my actual job. Raise money for the theater. Schmooze with donors who think culture is what you get between the aperitif and the caviar.”
She set the heat to low and covered the pan, then leaned against the counter, wine glass cradled in both hands.
“But I was good at it, Darcy. The investigation, I mean. I actually helped, even if Mr. Perfect Private Eye couldn’t be bothered to treat me like an equal partner.”
The timer on her phone chimed, reminding her to start the pasta water. She filled a large pot, added salt with the precision of a woman who’d made this exact meal hundreds of times, and set it on the stove to boil.
“And now Lancaster probably thinks I’m an idiot too. ‘Oh, that development director who got played by the PI.’ Great for my reputation,” She took another sip and raised the glass, “At least I still have you. You’ve never lied to me about having secret clients or hidden agendas.”
Mr. Darcy’s tail wagged unrelentingly, eager to be an astute conversation partner. The pasta water began to bubble, and she added the noodles, watching it soften in the rolling water. Steam fogged up in front of the tiled backsplash and the rich smell of garlic and tomatoes wafted to each corner.
“Maybe this is better,” She mused, testing a strand of pasta with her fork, “Maybe I’m not cut out for investigation. Maybe I should stick to what I know.”
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. The past few weeks had awakened something in her. A hunger for answers, for clarity, for justice. For the satisfaction that came from uncovering truth hidden beneath layers of deception. She’d felt more alive during those conversations with witnesses and suspects than she had in months of budget reviews. The pasta finished cooking, and she drained it, the steam rising from the colander in aromatic clouds. She tossed everything together until each strand was coated in the rich, red sauce.
“Dinner is served, Monsieur Darcy,” She announced in an affected French accent, though she made no move to serve herself. Instead, she stood at the stove, twirling pasta around her fork and eating directly from the pan while her dog watched with the hopeful expression of someone who’d been promised table scraps.
“Don’t judge me,” She told him around a mouthful of linguine, “It’s been a rough week.”
The wine had made her philosophical, or perhaps just maudlin.
“You know what really gets me? I started to trust him. When’s the last time I trusted a man who wasn’t related to me or you? But nooooo,” She continued, waving her fork dramatically, “Can’t have nice things. Can’t have a mystery man who turns out to be honest and forthright.”
She polished off the rest of the wine in her glass, lifted up the bottle and frowned at its lightness.
“I’m talking to my dog,” She announced to the kitchen at large, “I’m standing in my kitchen, eating pasta from the pan, drinking wine alone, and having a full conversation with my dog about my feelings.”
Mr. Darcy’s tail wagged encouragingly.
“This is not rock bottom,” She told him firmly, “Rock bottom would be if I started expecting you to answer back.”
She cleaned up the kitchen, the dishes finding their way into the dishwasher, the sauce pot soaking into the sink, and the empty wine bottle sinking into the recycling bin with a final flourish.
“Time for our evening programming!” She announced to Mr. Darcy, who had learned to associate this phrase with the couch, blankets, and an unauthorized snack or two.
Her living room was a study in comfortable contradictions. The couch was expensive and re-upholstered—a gift to herself when she'd gotten the job at the Fox—and was covered in throw pillows she'd collected from various clearance sales. The coffee table was a designer piece she'd found at an estate sale, but it was currently buried under a stack of magazines, books, and a half-finished crossword puzzle. She settled into her corner of the couch, Mr. Darcy claiming his usual spot beside her, his head resting on her thigh with the casual assumption of a golden who'd never been told he was too big to be a lap dog.
The remote felt heavier than usual in her wine-loosened grip as she scrolled through her streaming options. Nothing seemed appealing. Romantic comedies would just remind her of her own romantic disappointments. Crime dramas would make her think about the case she was no longer part of. Even cooking shows seemed problematic, given that she'd just spent an hour having a therapy session with her pasta sauce. She settled on a nature documentary about arctic foxes, reasoning that there was nothing threatening or emotionally complicated about small, fluffy animals surviving in harsh climates.
“See, Mr. Darcy?” She said, scratching behind his ears as the narrator’s soothing British accent filled the room, “These foxes have the right idea. They don’t trust anyone. They just focus on survival and finding food.”
Mr. Darcy sighed contentedly, his warm weight against her leg grounding her in the moment. The wine had settled into a pleasant buzz, the kind that made her feel soupy and warm. The documentary was exactly mindless enough to let her thoughts wander without dwelling on any single disappointment. All of the faces, the names, the details of her life blurred around the edges into a warm, golden mist that drifted up and up and up until she couldn’t see them anymore. Couldn’t feel them anymore.
She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, her phone was buzzing with a notification from her security system. She blinked groggily, noting that the TV had moved on to a documentary about penguins, and Mr. Darcy was now sprawled across her lap, suggesting that he'd been asleep for a while. The security notification showed motion at her front door. She frowned, checking the time. 9:47 PM. Late for unexpected visitors. She opened the app and nearly dropped her phone.
Dashiell O'Neill stood on her front steps, holding what appeared to be a white bakery box tied with string. And to make matters worse, he'd clearly made an effort. His hair looked like he’d just gotten out of the barbershop. He wore a crisp button-down shirt and dark jeans, and he held himself like a man with a plan. She looked down at herself— black flared leggings with a small hole near the knee, hair twisted into the suggestion of a top bun. Her face was probably puffy from the wine, and she was fairly certain she still had tomato sauce on the grey hoodie.
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” She muttered, causing Mr. Darcy to lift his head and look at her with sleepy confusion.
She watched Dash move side to side, adjusting his grip on the box. He looked nervous, which was so unlike the composed investigator she'd come to know that she found herself staring at the screen with fascination. He glanced around her quiet neighborhood, then back at the door, clearly debating his next move. On the security screen, Dash checked his watch, then looked directly at the camera.
“Dammit.” She swore under her breath, sinking into the couch as if that would ensure he couldn’t see her.
Mr. Darcy stretched and yawned, offering no judgment about her appearance or her sailor mouth. Her first instinct was to turn off all the lights and pretend she wasn't home. She could wait him out, let him stand there until he got the message and left. But then she remembered that her car was parked in the driveway rather than the garage.
“Dammit all to hell.” She swore again, pulling at the strings of her hoodie.
Maybe he’ll think I’m on vacation? She thought to herself unconvincingly. And then, a moment of clarion lucidity struck her. What was she doing? She was a grown woman. In her own home.
Hiding like she was in the wrong place.
“Fuck it,” She said suddenly, startling Mr. Darcy into full alertness, “At least I can give him another earful.”
She padded to the front door in her bare feet, Mr. Darcy trailing loyally behind. She could see Dash's silhouette through the frosted glass panels, could hear him shifting his weight on the wooden porch. She took a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and unlocked the deadbolt. The door swung open, and Bunny stood in the entrance like a sentinel guarding her territory. The evening air was cooler than she'd expected, and she became acutely aware of how thin her hoodie was, how exposed she felt in her comfortable clothes.
Dash looked exactly as good as the security camera had suggested. Tall, handsome, freshly showered and dressed like he actually cared about making a good impression. The contrast between his appearance and her current state of casual disarray made her feel both defensive and irritated.
“How did you find my address?” She asked without preamble, her voice colder than the evening air.
He looked at her blankly, face a mask of nonchalance despite his previous nervousness.
“It’s kind of my job. Finding people is basically 99% of what I do.” He replied, cool as a cucumber.
“Right,” She crossed her arms, blocking the doorway more completely, “And what exactly do you want?”
He held up the bakery box, and she caught the sweet scent of vanilla and butter carried on the cool air.
“Could I come in? The tea cakes are getting cold and–” He dug in his pocket, pulling out a twenty, “I came to give you this back. From the other day.”
Bunny blinked, her carefully constructed anger faltering for just a moment.
“You bake?” The incredulity in her voice was so complete that Dash's expression cracked into what approached a smile.
“Among my many hidden talents,” He said, “Along with generally screwing up promising partnerships with smart, capable women.”
The self-deprecation caught her off guard. She'd been prepared for explanations, excuses, maybe even arguments. She hadn't been prepared for remorse wrapped in homemade pastry. Despite every rational thought telling her to send him away, she found herself stepping back from the doorway.
“Fine,” She said, though her tone remained carefully neutral, “But only because of these alleged tea cakes. And you're staying in the kitchen. This isn't a social call.”
“Understood.” Dash said, stepping across her threshold with careful movements.
Mr. Darcy, who’d been watching this exchange with keen interest, bounded forward to investigate the newcomer. Dash knelt automatically, letting the dog sniff his free hand before scratching behind his ears.
“Sweet dog,” He said, and Bunny hated how genuine he sounded, “Golden retriever?”
“Mr. Darcy,” She replied shortly, “And yes.”
“Pride and Prejudice?”
“Obviously.”
She led him toward the kitchen, acutely aware of how her home must look to his investigator’s eyes. The living room was tidy but lived-in. The kitchen still smelled faintly of tomato sauce, basil, and garlic, evidence of her solo dinner and subsequent whining. If he thought anything of it, he didn’t say anything or show it.
“Nice place,” Dash nodded towards the floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the sides of her living room, “Very you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She mumbled, looking for condescension in his tone that did not come. Instead, he held up his hands as a peace offering.
“Woah, woah– I don’t mean anything by it. Just that it’s comfortable. Intentional,” He looked around, taking in the details, “Like someone who actually lives here, not just poses for pictures.”
She found herself both flattered and annoyed by his assessment, but conceded. She was too tired to fight. Bunny watched as Dash walked around to the island in the kitchen, untying the string around the bakery box. It opened to reveal a dozen small, round cookies, almost wafer thin and browned at the edges. They looked professional if humble, like something from a bakery rather than a home kitchen.
“You actually made these?” She asked again, her stomach growling despite the hefty bowl of pasta.
He pulled one from the box and held it out to her.
“Tea cakes.”
Against her better judgment, Bunny took the offered cookie and nibbled at it. It was still warm to the touch, buttery, like a drop of sunshine. It reminded her of holidays, of big kitchens, of her grandmother’s veranda.
But she’d never tell him that.
“It’s good.” She admitted reluctantly, taking a bigger bite and smiling in spite of herself.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He replied with a wry smile.
“I’m trying to stay angry at you,” She said around another bite of tea cake, “The baking thing is not helping.”
“That’s… actually why I’m here,” His expression grew drawn and serious, “To explain.”
Bunny couldn’t help the eye-roll, her irritation returning swiftly.
“There’s nothing to explain,” She said though she reached for another tea cake, “You lied to me, case closed.”
“I didn’t lie, Bunny. I just… eased into it.”
“Eased into it?” She scoffed, her voice dripping with disbelief, “Do you even hear yourself right now? You don’t ease into telling the truth. You either tell it, or you don’t. And guess what? You didn’t.”
Dash was quiet for a moment, his hands resting on the counter between them.
“You’re right,” He said finally, “I should have handled it differently.”
His admission deflated some of her anger, the cool undercurrent of sadness threatening to dampen her righteous fury entirely.
“Don’t do that.” She said quietly, turning away from him.
“Do what?”
“Be reasonable. Take responsibility. It’s easier to stay mad at you when you’re being defensive.”
“Would you rather I argue with you?”
“Honestly?” She shrugged, “Yes. It would make this whole situation much simpler.”
Dash laughed, a short, genuine sound.
“I can accommodate that if you’d like. I’ve got plenty of material for a good argument.”
“Oh, yeah? Such as?” She shifted, crossing her arms across her chest.
“Such as the fact that you’re being deliberately stubborn about this. That you’re so focused on the fact that I didn’t tell you about Glen being my client that you’re ignoring everything else we discovered together.”
Bunny raised an eyebrow.
“Everything you discovered using me as an unwitting research assistant, you mean.”
“Everything we discovered working as partners, even if I was an idiot.”
He moved closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiate off of him, close enough that she could see the glint of gold under his shirt.
“Not just an idiot, but also a chump.” She mumbled under her breath. He scoffed but held her gaze.
“You want to know the truth about why I didn’t tell you? The whole truth?” He asked.
She shrugged again.
“I’m listening.” She took a step back, crossing her arms in front of her, barricading herself once more.
“I was afraid that once you knew Glen hired me, you’d think that’s all this was. A job.”
The silence that settled between them felt suffocating. She swallowed and looked down. Looked anywhere but at Dash.
“Wasn’t it?” She asked, voice small.
“Not after the first day. Not after I saw how much you actually cared about finding the truth.”
Bunny finally looked up again, studying his face. Looking for signs of manipulation, of calculation. But all she saw was exhaustion.
“That still doesn’t excuse the lying.”
“No, it doesn’t,” He ran a hand over his head, “I’ve spent so many years building walls between my personal and professional life that I forgot how to tear them down when it mattered.”
“And it mattered?”
“You mattered,” The words came out slightly broken– like they’d lingered in his head too long, like he hadn’t quite tried them on for size yet, “You matter. This matters.”
Bunny felt a shift in her chest, a loosening of the tight anger she’d been carrying since their confrontation in the restaurant parking lot.
“I still don’t trust you,” She said, though with less conviction than before.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” He paused, “But I’d like the chance to earn your trust back.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the best partner I’ve had in years–”
“You mean, the only partner.” She couldn’t help but blurt out, which earned a crooked smile from him. He rubbed the back of his neck, and she noticed the slight dimple in his left cheek.
“I—I like who I am when I’m working with you,” He admitted, his voice quieter now, almost shy, “I’m better at this job when you’re asking questions I wouldn’t think to ask.”
She stiffened, the sincerity in his tone catching her off guard. Damn him. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him anymore. Not after everything. But there he was, standing in her kitchen, looking at her like she held the answers to every question he’d ever had.
His next words cut through her defenses like a blade.
“I need you, Bunny. This case needs both of us.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Even Mr. Darcy seemed to sense the tension, resting his chin on the floor with a hopeful expression, his tail thumping softly against the wood.
“At least someone in this house has their priorities straight.” Bunny muttered, turning away from Dash to open the treat drawer and hopefully dissipate her nerves.
She pulled out a peanut butter bite and tossed it to the golden retriever, who caught it mid-air with a satisfied crunch.
Dash watched her intently as she hoisted herself onto the quartz kitchen island, her legs swinging idly over the edge. The silence stretched again, but this time it felt heavier, charged with that which neither of them was willing to name.
“Is that a yes?” He asked finally.
She took her time answering, letting the quiet linger.
“It’s a maybe,” She said at last, her tone careful, measured, “I’m still mad at you.”
“Understandable.”
So predictable, she thought, but there was no malice in it.
“You should have told me.” She added, her voice softer now, almost gentle.
“I know.”
Another pause, longer this time, as they both absorbed the weight of what they were rebuilding. Bunny exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter.
“But if we keep working together, no more secrets. I mean it, Dash. I need to know everything.”
He nodded, relief washing over his features like a wave breaking onshore.
“Everything. I promise.”
She studied him for a long moment, searching for any hint of deceit.
Before she could stop herself, she slid off the counter and stepped closer, closing the distance between them in two strides. Her hand reached up almost instinctively. She placed it on his broad chest. His breath faltered, his body tensing under her touch.
“You owe me.” She murmured, pressing an index finger gently against his skin, as if she were accusing his very heart of betrayal.
“I know.” He whispered back, his eyes darkening as they locked onto hers.
Her fingers lingered on his chest for a heartbeat longer than she intended, and then she pulled away abruptly, as if burned.
“Good. Don’t make me regret this.”
Dash didn’t respond, didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. She turned away, busying herself with refilling Mr. Darcy’s water bowl, but she could feel his gaze on her back like a physical touch. When she finally straightened and turned around again, he was still there, still watching her with that same unreadable expression.
“What?” She snapped, though her voice lacked its usual edge.
He took a step closer, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Are you sure about this?”
Her heart stuttered in her chest, but she forced herself to meet his gaze head-on.
“Sure about what?”
“Us. Working together again.” His voice was steady, but there was a vulnerability in his eyes that made her stomach twist.
She hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder in a gesture that was meant to be indifferent but came off as anything but.
“Do you want me to say it again? It’s a maybe, Dash. Don’t push your luck.”
“Bunny,” He said softly, her name barely more than a whisper on his lips.
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t move. All she could do was stand there, her pulse thrumming loudly in her ears as she waited for him to—
The sound of Mr. Darcy’s tail thumping against the cabinet broke the spell. Bunny blinked, stepping back quickly as though waking from a dream.
“We should… we should get to work.” She said, her voice uneven.
She turned toward the living room, but not before catching the way Dash’s jaw tightened, the way his hands clenched at his sides before he followed her without a word.
The living room was bathed in soft lamplight, casting long shadows across the couch and the scattered books on the coffee table. Bunny perched on the edge of the couch, her fingers absently tracing the felted edge. Dash stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the city lights filtering through the blinds. The air between them was thick with unspoken words.
“So, about that paint can.”
“Yes,” Bunny said, refocusing on the case, “Federal White. Empty. Out of place in a meticulously ordered home. It was the only thing in the entire mansion that seemed off. Everything else was perfectly aligned, organized, controlled.”
“Could it have been used for something else? Art project? Furniture?”
“Maybe, but then why keep an empty can? And why store it improperly? Everything else in that supply closet was arranged like a military operation.”
Dash’s eyes had taken on that focused look she recognized, the one that meant his mind was connecting dots invisible to others.
“We need to get back into that house.” He said.
“Lancaster would never allow it,” Bunny pointed out, “Especially not with you.”
“Not through official channels, no. But there are other… ways to access a property under investigation.”
Bunny raised an eyebrow.
“Are you suggesting we break into a crime scene? Because that sounds like exactly the kind of thing Lancaster warned me not to do.”
“Not breaking in,” Dash corrected, “Just returning after hours for a more thorough examination.”
“So, breaking in.”
“I prefer ‘unauthorized secondary investigation.’”
Despite everything, Bunny found herself smiling.
“That’s just breaking in with more syllables.”
“I have contacts at the security company that monitors that neighborhood. I can arrange a window where the system would be temporarily offline for maintenance. I’ve also been in contact with Glen’s legal rep since this whole thing happened- I bet I can get permission from her to enter the property,” He glanced at Bunny and she could have sworn she saw the slightest glint of mischief, “Without triggering the Lancaster bat signal.”
“This is insane,” Bunny said, though even to her own ears, she didn’t sound entirely opposed to the idea, “If Lancaster finds out—”
“She won’t. Not if we’re careful.”
“Let’s say I’m even considering this monumentally stupid idea,” She began cautiously, “How would it work?”
“Tomorrow night. After midnight. I’ll handle the security system. We go in, focus on the service areas, look for anything connected to that paint can, and get out. Two hours max.”
“And if we get caught?”
“We won’t.”
“But if we do?”
Dash’s expression turned serious.
“Then I take full responsibility. I say I manipulated you, used your access to the house from the official visit to plan a break-in, spoke to Glen’s lawyer behind your back, and you knew nothing about it.”
“That’s gallant but stupid. I’m a grown woman making my own terrible decisions.”
“True, but you also have a lot to lose.”
Bunny thought about the Fox, about Fenelope’s trust, about the years she’d spent building her reputation in the arts community. Not to mention, her lack of a PI license that could blunt the force of the worst repercussions. Dash was right. She really did have a lot to lose. But so did whoever killed Harold Finch right in front of her.
“Okay,” She said finally, “I’m in. But we’re only looking for evidence related to the paint can, not rifling through his underwear drawer or anything creepy.”
“Agreed.”
“And if we don’t find anything in two hours, we leave and never speak of this again.”
“Deal.”
Dash turned to face her directly, extending his hand.
Bunny hesitated for just a moment before taking it. His palm was warm against hers, the grip firm but not overwhelming. There was a steadiness to him that she found herself relying on more than she cared to admit.
“Meet me at the corner of Lantern Hill and Oak Ridge at 12:30,” He said, releasing her hand, “Wear dark colors, comfortable shoes, and bring a small flashlight if you have one.”
She leaned back against the couch.
“Fine. I’ll be there,” She bit the inside of her cheek pensively, “But Dash?”
He cocked an eyebrow, and slipped his hands into his pockets.
“Next time you make tea cakes, you're bringing them before we have a fight, not after."
He smiled, wide and lazily. She felt her stomach flip.
“Deal. Though I should probably mention that I also make excellent apple pie.”
Bunny reached up and gently pushed him in jest, but she found herself smiling. They stood there for a moment, the weight of their agreement settling between them. The plan was insane, potentially career-ending, and almost certainly illegal. But as she watched Dash gather the empty bakery box and prepare to leave, Bunny felt something she hadn't experienced in weeks: purpose.
“One more thing.” She said as he reached the front door.
He turned back, eyebrows raised.
“If we're doing this, we're doing it right. No more half-truths, no more protecting me from information you think I can't handle.
“I already promised—”
“I'm not finished,” She stepped closer, “If this goes sideways, if Lancaster finds out, we face the consequences together. No falling on swords, no taking sole responsibility. We're partners, which means we succeed together or fail together.”
Dash studied her face for a long moment, something shifting in his expression.
“Partners.” He agreed quietly.
After he left, Bunny stood in her doorway watching his taillights disappear around the corner. Mr. Darcy pressed against her leg, sensing her mood.
“Well, boy,” She said, scratching behind his ears, “Looks like we're about to find out if I'm as good at this detective thing as I think I am.”
She closed and locked the door, then moved through her apartment turning off lights. But instead of heading to bed, she found herself in her study, pulling out a legal pad and a pen. If they were going to do this, she wanted to be prepared.
At the top of the page, she wrote: Questions about Glen Valentino's death.
Below that: Federal White paint - why keep empty can? What was painted? Where?
Then: Who had access to the house? Staff? Visitors? Service people?
As she wrote, her mind began to race with possibilities. The paint could be a red herring, a coincidence. Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:
Sleep well. Tomorrow night changes everything. -D
She stared at the message for a long moment before deleting it and turning off her phone. Whatever tomorrow night brought, there was no turning back now. Outside her window, Magnolia Heights settled into its quiet suburban slumber, unaware that somewhere in its manicured streets, a killer was sleeping peacefully, confident that their secrets would remain buried.
They were about to discover how wrong they were.