She opens the door just enough to let us in. I exchange a glance with Miller before following her inside.
The house is small and tidy, but there’s an underlying sense of neglect, like it’s been kept up just enough to not fall apart. The furniture is old, probably decades old, the kind that used to be nice but now just looks tired. A beige couch with worn-in cushions, a wooden coffee table covered in magazines that haven’t been moved in a while. The air smells faintly of stale coffee and something floral, like a candle burned down to the wick days ago.
I clock the details automatically, the same way I was trained to. One front window, slightly cracked open. No back door in sight, which means the only exit is behind us. Curtains drawn tight over every window. A framed photo on the shelf near the TV—Rose with a man, probably her late husband, and a boy who looks about ten, though there aren’t any signs of a child living here now.
Rose gestures toward the couch. “Sit if you want.”
I stay standing, leaning against the arm of the couch instead, arms crossed. Miller lowers herself into the chair across from Rose, crossing her legs at the knee, looking completely at ease despite the tension practically rolling off our host.
Miller starts easy. “Tell us about the inspection. What was the Bluebell like when you were there?”
Rose’s eyes dart toward me briefly before settling on Miller. “Clean. Same as always.”
“You’ve inspected it before?” I ask, watching the way her jaw tightens.
“Couple times over the years,” she admits. “Never had an issue. The place has always been spotless.”
“So what changed?” Miller asks. “Because according to the revised report, you found mold, improper food storage, rodent droppings and a handful of other violations.”
Rose shifts uncomfortably. Crosses her ankles. Uncrosses them. “I don’t know what to tell you. If that’s what was in the report, then that’s what was in the report.”
Miller lets the silence stretch. She’s good at that, making people uncomfortable. I can see why she’s such a good lawyer.
I watch Rose’s knee bounce once before she presses her hand against it, stilling the movement.
“You filed a clean report, didn’t you?” Miller asks.
Rose doesn’t answer.
Miller leans forward slightly. “Ms. Weaver, the less information you give us now, the more this could come back to bite you in the ass later.”
Rose’s eyes flicking toward the window. “I filed the original report. I went in, did the inspection, and found nothing wrong.”
I exchange a glance with Miller.
“So when did that change?” I ask. “Did someone make you change it?”
Rose hesitates. “I got a call.”
Miller’s voice sharpens. “From who?”
Rose shakes her head. “Didn’t recognize the number. Just a womantelling me I needed to amend my report.”
Awoman? The hell?
“Did she threaten you?” I ask, scanning her face.
She shakes her head again. “No. Just said it would be in my best interest to file a new report, one that shut the Bluebell down.”
Miller exhales slowly. “And you just…did it?”
Rose’s expression hardens. “You don’t understand how this works, do you?” She glances between us. “I was so close to retirement. I had a pension. People like me don’t have the luxury of pissing off the wrong people.”
“You mean people like Wendell Tate,” I say, watching her closely.
Her eyes go cold. “I don’t know anything about Wendell Tate being involved.”
Miller tilts her head. “Did she pay you? This woman?”
