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.
✨Prefer a more immersive experience? Listen to the audio version above for a tandem read✨
Dash was beside her in an instant.
“What does it say?” He asked.
Bunny began to read aloud:
“Ms. Beaudoin, I understand you’ve been asking questions about me. Perhaps we should speak directly rather than through intermediaries. I’m available via the enclosed Zoom link tomorrow at 6:00 PM. I suggest you make time in your schedule. This conversation will be of mutual benefit.”
She looked up at Dash.
“There’s a Zoom link attached.”
“She knows we’re investigating her.” Dash said, his voice tight.
“But how? The only people who know are us and–” Bunny stopped.
“Lancaster.” They said in unison.
“The police might have contacted her about follow-up questions,” Dash reasoned, “But this is bold, reaching out directly.”
“What do I do?”
Dash’s expression turned grim.
“You accept the invitation. But don’t attend the call alone, and not unprepared.”
Bunny stared at the email, its formal language somehow more menacing than any overt threat. Despite the crowded room full of costumes from a hundred different stories, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being pulled into a script someone else had written. One where her role might be distressingly short-lived.
“I have to say,” She muttered, “This is not how I expected fundraising to ruin my life. I 100% thought it’d be tax fraud.”
“Look on the bright side,” Dash replied, his hand briefly touching her shoulder, “If we’re right about Carissa, at least your seating chart didn’t cause a murder. It just provided a convenient opportunity for one.”
“Wow,” Bunny’s voice dripped with mock gratitude, “You’re really great at this comforting thing. Ever considered a side hustle writing sympathy cards for serial killers?”
His lips quirked into a grin.
“I save my best material for special occasions.”
She looked down at her phone again, the Zoom invitation glowing like a beacon– or a trap.
“Lucky me.”
🀙🀚🀛🀜
Bunny arrived at Dash's office carrying takeout Thai food in greasy paper bags, the smell of pad thai and guilt competing for space in her chest. She'd spent the afternoon reorganizing her donor database, a mindless task that usually calmed her but today only amplified the restless energy that had been building since the day prior.
“You didn't have to feed me.” Dash said, clearing case files from his desk to make room for the containers.
“Consider it a business expense. We're about to potentially accuse someone of triple homicide via video call. Seemed like the kind of conversation that required carbohydrates.”
She watched him divide the food with the same methodical precision he brought to evidence analysis. Even opening a container of curry, he managed to make it look deliberate, controlled. Meanwhile, she was already picking at the spring rolls with her fingers, too nervous to wait for proper utensils.
“You always eat when you're anxious?” He asked, noting her restless nibbling.
“You always psychoanalyze your dinner companions?”
“Only the ones helping me interrogate murder suspects.”
Bunny paused, a piece of lettuce halfway to her mouth. The casual way he said it made the whole situation feel simultaneously more and less serious. They were partners now, she realized. Not just an employee who happened to witness a death and the investigator assigned to figure out what happened. They were actively working together, sharing theories, taking risks.
“What if we're wrong?” She asked, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her all day. “What if she really is guilty and we just gave her the perfect opportunity to disappear completely?”
Dash set down his chopsticks, considering this. The desk lamp carved shadows under his cheekbones, making him look older, more tired.
“Then we learn something from how she responds. Guilty people and innocent people lie differently. They deflect differently.”
“And you can tell the difference?”
“Usually.”
The word hung between them, loaded with years of experience she couldn't imagine. How many liars had he sat across from? How many people had tried to manipulate him, charm him, convince him of their innocence?
“Must make trust complicated.” She said.
Something shifted in his expression, a brief vulnerability before the professional mask slid back into place.
“Everything's complicated.”
The windows of Dash’s office had transformed with the setting sun, becoming less portals to the outside world and more mirrors reflecting the desperate tableau within. Many visitors would describe Magnolia Heights as a collection of quaint neighborhoods strung together by a verdant canopy of pine, oak, and magnolia trees. But the town’s nightfall brought a different energy, one where secrets felt heavier and truths more elusive. It was five now. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly toward six.
After hours, the office had that intimate feeling of a confessional booth; all amber desk lamp light and long shadows. The building around them had emptied hours ago, leaving them alone in their makeshift war room. He finally stopped fiddling with his laptop and moved to sit beside her on the couch, take-out box in hand.
“You know, you never told me how you ended up doing this,” Bunny said, needing to fill the nervous energy between them, “The whole… private eye thing.”
Dash leaned back, considering.
“Started in the Army. Military police. Thought I’d be career military like my old man, but,” He shrugged, “Turns out I was better at asking questions than following orders.”
“Shocking.” Bunny said dryly, earning a small grin.
“After my discharge, seemed natural to keep investigating things. Just traded fatigues for a cheap suit,” He glanced at her, “What about you? How does someone end up sweet-talking millionaires for a living?”
Bunny set down her take-out box, tucking one leg beneath her on the couch.
“My daddy owned the first Black staffing agency in Magnolia Heights. Built it from nothing. I watched him wine and dine clients, bend over backwards to prove he was just as good– no, better– than the other agencies.”
She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.
“My mother had been a teacher, but she gave it up when my brother was born. Then me. I knew she was happy, taken care of- my pops made sure that all of us were. And she was a damn good mother,” Bunny paused, realizing how quickly she was talking but unable to stop, “Always making us breakfast before school. At every PTA meeting, every school recital, every swim meet. But every now and again, she would go somewhere inside of herself where none of us could follow, you know?”
Bunny waited for the shame of oversharing to hit, waited for the awkward silence. But it didn’t come. Instead, Dash nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, I know,” He said, and a tired smile lit up his eyes, “That why you work so hard? Proving something?”
“Maybe,” Bunny met his eyes, “Or maybe I just learned early that charm opens doors. That if you can make people like you, make them laugh, they’ll give you things they wouldn’t give someone else.”
Dash studied her momentarily.
“You’re good at it. Making people feel comfortable. Donors eating out of your hand.”
“Whereas you’d rather eat glass than work a room like that?”
His laugh was short, genuine.
“Glass might be preferable. I don’t… do well with all that. The small talk, the networking. Give me a case file over a cocktail party any day.”
“Dating must be a minefield,” Bunny said, then immediately wished she could take it back. Too personal. Too much like she was fishing.
But Dash’s expression remained neutral. Almost shy.
“This job doesn’t leave much room for that.”
“Come on. Mysterious and brooding detective? Women must throw themselves at you.”
“It’s not about lack of opportunity. Trust me,” He smirked, but the mirth didn’t truly reach his eyes, “It’s about what happens when they realize what the job actually means. The late nights. The dangerous people. The fact that I see the worst in everyone because that’s what I’m paid to find.”
His voice had fallen flat.
“Bad break up?”
He shrugged and ran a hand over his beard. She caught the glint of a gold necklace peeking under his shirt collar and fought the urge to touch the metal. Metal that would surely be warmed by his skin.
“Turns out most people don’t want to date someone who assumes everyone is lying. Who can’t turn off suspicion even at dinner.”
“That’s not fair,” She protested gently, “You can’t help being good at reading people.”
“Can’t I?” Dash’s jaw tightened.
He'd been a military cop for fifteen years before going private, and in all that time, he'd never brought work home. The job stayed at the base, locked away with his service weapon and his badge. But private cases lived in his apartment now, in his mind, spread across his kitchen table and his psyche like a cancer. Crime scene photos, witness statements, newspaper clippings. And at the center of it all, yellow legal pads covered in his handwriting, questions that multiplied faster than he could answer them.
“Last woman I dated said being with me was like being constantly cross-examined. That I treated our relationship like a case to be solved instead of…” He stopped, shaking his head.
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of just letting it be. Trusting,” He rubbed his face again, “Hard to trust when you spend your days documenting all the ways people betray each other.”
Bunny recognized the bone-deep weariness in his voice.
“I get it,” She said gently, “Different reasons, but I get it.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a beat, listening to the sounds of Magnolia Heights through the open windows. A light breeze carried the scent of honeysuckle and spring heat into the darkened room through the slightly opened windows.
“You know what made me cynical?” Bunny said, breaking the quiet, “Watching my father close a deal with Hutchinson Industries.”
Dash took a large bite of noodles, a slight smear of oil and sauce catching at the side of his lip. He wiped it away with a napkin, nodding in interest.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of them- construction, right?”
“Mmhm,” Bunny mumbled, popping a crab rangoon into her mouth, “Million-dollar contract. He’d worked on it for months.”
She tucked her other leg underneath the skirt of her dress, making herself smaller on the couch.
“The CEO made him wait in the lobby for three hours. When they finally met, he made my dad use the service elevator. Said the main one was for ‘client-facing staff.’ Dad smiled through it all. Shook that man’s hand. Thanked him for the opportunity.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That was business,” Bunny’s voice carried years of accumulated bitterness, “I was sixteen, watching from the car. Saw my daddy come out that building looking smaller than when he went in. He got the contract, but,” She trailed off, “Money can make people cruel. Makes them think they own you just because they’re writing a check.”
Dash shifted slightly on the couch, angling his body toward hers.
“But… you still do it. Still work with them.”
Bunny couldn’t help but shrug at this, looking everywhere but next to her. It felt like she had been found out.
“Someone has to fund the arts,” She conceded finally, picking at her cuticles, “Might as well be someone who sees through their bullshit.”
She finally met his gaze.
“Besides, not everyone’s terrible. You just have to look harder for the good ones.”
“That’s what’s different between us,” Dash said, his voice lower now, “Even after everything you’ve seen, you still look for the good. You still see people as more than just tools or obstacles or suspects.”
“Is that what you think you do? See everyone as suspects?” She asked.
“It’s safer that way,” He was close enough now that she could see the thin rim of black that encircled his brown irises, “Fewer disappointments.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It is.”
The admission hung between them, surprisingly honest. Surprisingly disarming.
Then, the laptop chimed sharply, making them both freeze. Dash glanced at his watch and pulled back, placing his half-eaten pad thai on the coffee table in front of them and away from the laptop which flashed with an unduly large meeting notification.
“Fifteen minutes,” He said, unceremoniously cutting through the curtain-thick silence, “We should–”
“Yeah,” Bunny straightened, shifting her legs down from under her, “We should get ready.”
“Lancaster’s on standby?” She asked, smoothing the wrinkles from the skirt of her dress.
“Said she’ll be listening in from her car,” Dash confirmed, “Somewhere with a solid connection but away from the station. Fewer ears that way.”
“And Carissa has no idea?” Bunny pressed.
“If she does, she’s got better sources in the department than I do.” He finally looked up, his expression softening fractionally.
“You ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She responded meekly, patting her hair.
He gave her another nod, the look in his eyes almost unreadable. But there was something in it—hungry and conflicted— that seemed to match the sharp frisson of desire that softly, subtly, knowingly, pulsed through her.
🀙🀚🀛🀜
At precisely six o’clock, he clicked the Zoom link. The screen remained black for several excruciating seconds before flaring to life, revealing a scene that could have been lifted from a travel magazine. The deck of a beach house, framed by swaying palm trees, with the ocean a watercolor wash of purples and oranges in the distance. And there, in stark contrast to the paradisiacal backdrop, sat Carissa Levinson looking considerably less polished than she had at the gala. Her grey-blond hair, usually cropped short and swept into an immaculate layered blow-out, sat unstyled and windswept. She wore a white linen shirt rather than her customary power suit. But her eyes remained the same: sharp, assessing, missing nothing.
“Ms. Beaudoin,” She began, her voice crisp despite the thousands of miles between them, “And Mr. O’Neill. I wasn’t aware this would be a group call.”
“I hope that’s not a problem,” Bunny replied, channeling her most diplomatic fundraiser tone, “Mr. O’Neill has been assisting the Fox with some… security concerns following the recent incident.”
“By ‘incident,’ you mean Harold Finch’s murder at your gala,” Carissa’s directness was jarring, “Let’s not dress it up. We’re all adults here.”
Dash leaned forward slightly.
“Your email mentioned mutual benefit, Ms. Levinson. We’re interested in what you had in mind.”
Carissa’s eyes flicked to something off-camera before returning to them. The motion was brief but deliberate, like a chess player considering alternate moves.
“I understand you’ve been asking questions about me. About my relationship with Glen, about the medication I provided at the gala,” Her mouth tightened, “About my convenient vacation timing.”
“It’s standard procedure after unexpected deaths,” Dash replied smoothly, “Retracing events, understanding connections.”
“Bullshit,” The expletive was so unexpected from Carissa’s refined mouth that Bunny nearly flinched, “You’re building a case against me. That’s why I left the country.”
Carissa had always been meticulous about escape routes. Growing up with Glen had taught her that. Not the Glen from magazine covers and pharmaceutical conferences—that Glen was a performance, all strategic smiles and calculated charm. The real Glen, the one who threw crystal tumblers at walls when quarterly projections disappointed him, who screamed at assistants until they cried, who could switch from adoring husband to cold stranger in the space between one breath and the next.
She'd learned to read the signs early in their marriage. The particular way he held his shoulders when a board meeting went badly. The clipped rhythm of his footsteps in the hallway outside their bedroom. The silence that preceded his storms like the eerie calm before tornadoes. During those years, she'd always kept her passport current, her personal bank account separate, a bag packed in the back of her walk-in closet that Glen never bothered to explore. Fifteen years of marriage had felt like living in a house where someone else controlled the weather.
Now, sitting on the deck of this borrowed beach house in Nassau, ice cubes melting in her rum punch, Carissa couldn't shake the familiar weight in her chest. That crushing sensation of walls closing in, of being cornered by forces beyond her control. The same feeling she'd had during the divorce proceedings when Glen's lawyers tried to paint her as an unstable gold-digger. The same feeling she'd had at Harold's memorial service, watching Detective Lancaster's eyes follow her every movement.
The Bahamas had seemed like genius when she'd booked the flight three days after Harold's murder. Close enough to monitor the investigation through news reports and Glen's social media posts, far enough away to avoid becoming Lancaster's convenient scapegoat. She'd even chosen Nassau specifically—extradition treaties were complicated, but not impossible. If she'd really wanted to disappear, she would have gone somewhere more remote. Somewhere without reliable internet or functioning cell towers.
But she hadn't wanted to disappear. She'd wanted to survive.
“Most people would see fleeing to the Bahamas as an admission of guilt.” Bunny observed, keeping her tone casual with effort.
“Yeah, well, most people aren’t being framed for murder.” Carissa countered, leaning closer to the camera.
The sunset behind her deepened, casting her face in dramatic half-shadow.
“I left because I recognized the pattern. Three people connected to Glen, all dead under suspicious circumstances. I was the obvious next target.”
“Target?” Dash repeated, “Or suspect?”
“Both, possibly.”
A fissure appeared in Carissa’s composure. A flicker of genuine fear.
“Someone wants Glen’s associates silenced, and they’re setting me up to take the fall. That’s why I reached out to you, Ms. Beaudoin. You were there. You saw what happened.”
“I saw you give Harold Finch medication before he died,” Bunny said, watching Carissa’s reaction closely, “The same medication you offered Glen earlier.”
“Antacid tablets.” Carissa said without hesitation.
“Glen has had acid reflux for twenty years. During our marriage, I carried his medication because he’d always forget. The habit stuck, even after the divorce.”
She ran a hand through her hair, another uncharacteristic gesture of discomposure. The breeze off the water carried the salt-sweet smell of seaweed and sunscreen, sounds of children playing in the surf at the resort next door. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Nothing like the oppressive silence of her Magnolia Heights apartment, where every creak of the building made her wonder if someone was coming for her.
She sipped her drink and tried to focus on the horizon line where ocean met sky, that endless blue that made problems feel smaller and more manageable. The sun was beginning its descent toward the water, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. It touched the horizon, setting the ocean on fire.
“Harold complained about his stomach. I was being polite. The same tablets I’ve given to dozens of people at functions over the years.”
“Including Maurice Katz and Catherine Winters?” Dash asked.
If he’d hoped to catch her off guard, the strategy failed. Carissa’s expression shifted to one of frustrated recognition.
“So that’s the connection you’ve made. Yes, I knew them both. And yes, I probably offered Maurice antacids at some point. High pressure careers devoted to swindling people tend to give people constant stomach pain. But Catherine? No. We weren’t close.”
Bunny exchanged a quick glance with Dash before pressing forward.
“What about Glen’s legal troubles? The federal investigation into price-fixing at Valentino Pharmaceuticals?”
For the first time, Carissa appeared genuinely surprised. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed– a harsh, bitter sound that bounced off the tropical idyll behind her like a stone skipping across water.
“Is that your theory? That I’m eliminating witnesses to protect Glen?”
She shook her head, incredulity giving way to something darker.
“I’ve been waiting two years for that investigation to come to fruition. Harold Finch was the key witness who could finally bring Glen to justice. His testimony would have ensured a conviction.”
She leaned forward, her face filling the screen, eyes intent.
“Why would I kill the one person guaranteed to put my ex-husband behind bars where he belongs?”
The question hung in the digital space between them, undermining the theory they’d so carefully constructed. Bunny felt the solid ground beneath their case shift like sand at high tide.
“You wanted the divorce settlement reopened,” Dash suggested, recalibrating, “Glen facing prison would have given you leverage.”
“I wanted Glen to face consequences for once in his entitled life,” Carissa retorted, “Do you have any idea what it’s like being married to a man who believes rules are for other people? Who crushes anyone who stands in his way?”
She gestured to the beach behind her.
“I don’t need his money. I built my own career, my own life. What I needed was for him to finally answer for his actions.”
“Then why flee the country?” Bunny challenged, “Why not stay and help the investigation?”
“Because I recognized the pattern too late,” Carissa admitted, deflating slightly, “Maurice, then Catherine, then Harold. All connected to Glen’s case, all dead before they could testify. I realized I was either next on the kill list or being set up as the perpetrator.”
She picked up a glass of amber liquid, the ice cubes clinking against crystal.
“So I removed myself from the equation. Bought myself time.”
“Convenient.” Dash’s voice remained neutral, but Bunny could sense his frustration.
“If I were guilty, Mr. O’Neill, why would I contact you? Why call attention to myself at all?”
Why go to the Bahamas instead of some place where they wouldn’t ship you back to the States? Bunny thought, biting her cheek to keep from speaking out loud. Lancaster’s hard gaze flashed in her mind.
Carissa sipped her drink.
“I reached out because I need allies. People who can see the truth beyond the obvious setup.”
“And what is the truth, Ms. Levinson?” Bunny asked, increasingly uncertain.
Carissa’s gaze sharpened, calculating.
“Unlike your little theory, I have a different premonition.”
She put down the glass.
“Someone is systematically eliminating everyone connected to Glen’s case. But don’t mistake this for protection. Glen himself may be the ultimate target.”
She leaned forward, lowering her voice.
“Think about it. Maurice, Catherine, Harold– they’re not just witnesses, they’re stepping stones. Remove everyone who could implicate Glen in the federal case, then when he feels safe, when he thinks he’s untouchable…” She snapped her fingers, “The perfect revenge.”
“You’re suggesting a long game.” Dash said, skepticism evident in his tone.
“I’m suggesting exactly that.” Carissa’s eyes flashed with conviction.
“Glen has made enemies his entire career: people he’s stepped on, companies he’s destroyed, families he’s ruined with his price gouging. His Teflon reputation is just that– a reputation. Behind closed doors, the pharmaceutical industry loathes him. His own board has tried to oust him twice.”
As Carissa spoke, Bunny found herself cataloguing details with careful attention. The woman's body language, the studied casualness of her tropical setting, the way she held herself even in alleged exile. There was something theatrical about it all. The perfect beach house backdrop, the carefully windswept hair, even the way the sunset painted her in dramatic lighting. But theater wasn't necessarily deception. Bunny had organized enough fundraising galas to know that presentation was often just another form of truth-telling.
What struck her wasn't the staging. It was the exhaustion underneath it. The way Carissa's shoulders sagged when she thought they weren't looking, the brief moments when her composed facade cracked to reveal something rawer. Fear, maybe. Or the bone-deep weariness of someone who'd been running for too long. The expression of someone who'd built their entire life around managing other people's perceptions and was starting to forget who they actually were underneath all the performance.
“If what you’re saying is true,” Bunny started, “Why reach out to us? Why not warn Glen directly?”
Carissa let out a harsh laugh.
“Glen wouldn’t believe me if I told him the sun rises in the east. Our divorce wasn’t just contentious. It was nuclear. He’d assume I was manipulating him.”
She shook her head.
“Besides, I don’t owe him warnings. What I care about is stopping whoever’s doing this before more people die and before I get framed for it.”
“So we’re meant to be your allies, not your legal counsel.” Dash observed.
“Precisely. I don’t need anything from Glen. Our lives are mercifully separate now. What I need are people who can see the pattern without the police’s tunnel vision. People who might actually look beyond the obvious.”
She sipped her drink.
“Glen’s ruthless business practices have created a legion of enemies with motive. But only someone with inside knowledge would know who to eliminate and how to make it look like a protective conspiracy.”
“Do you have a name to offer?” Dash asked, a hint of urgency tinging his voice, almost betraying his lack of neutrality.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.”
Carissa glanced off-camera again, this time with visible unease.
“I have to go. I’ve stayed in one location too long.”
“That sounds like paranoia, Ms. Levinson.” Dash said, face returned to a mask.
“Three people are dead, Mr. O’Neill,” Her voice hardened, “I don’t intend to be the fourth.”
She leaned closer, her face serious.
“Look beyond the obvious,” She paused, “And Ms. Beaudoin? Be careful who you trust at the Fox. No one is who they seem.”
The call ended abruptly, leaving Bunny and Dash staring at a black screen that reflected their own troubled expressions. The silence that followed Carissa's abrupt departure felt heavy, charged with everything they hadn't said. Bunny stared at her own reflection in the black laptop screen, noting how small she looked next to Dash in the pixelated mirror.
“Well,” She said finally, “That was more compelling than I expected.”
“Compelling isn't the same as truthful.”
But his voice lacked conviction. She could see it in the way he rubbed his jaw, the unconscious gesture he made when processing information that didn't fit his existing theories.
“You believe her.” Bunny said.
“I believe parts of her story make sense,” He closed the laptop with more force than necessary, “Which is different.”
“How different?”
He stood, pacing to the window that overlooked the street below. The city moved past in streams of headlights and illuminated windows, thousands of people going about their lives while they sat in this small office trying to untangle murder and motive.
“Different enough that we need to start looking at other possibilities.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. Bunny recognized the look—she'd worn it herself countless times when a donor she'd counted on pulled their funding at the last minute, or when a board member she'd trusted revealed themselves to be working against everything she'd built.
“You don't like being wrong.” She observed.
“Nobody likes being wrong.”
“No, but you really don't like it. It's not just professional pride. It's something else.”
He turned from the window, studying her with that intense focus that made her feel both seen and scrutinized.
“You think you know me well enough to make that assessment?”
“I think I know what it looks like when someone's entire identity is built around being the person who figures things out. Who sees what others miss,” She stood, moving closer, “And I think you're scared that if you're wrong about this, you might be wrong about other things too.”
The words hit their mark. She could see it in the way his expression tightened, the subtle shift in his posture, the way he sized her up.
“Maybe I am, Bunny Beaudoin,” He said quietly, “Maybe I am.”