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“You’re shaking,” she says softly.

I yank my hand back, curling it into a fist. “Didn’t realize I had therapist on top of a caregiver,” I mutter. “You’ll be sure to invoice me.”

Something cold flickers crosses her face. She pulls her scarf tighter. “Have a good evening, Lydia,” she says evenly. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“I won’t,” I say flatly.

She hesitates, long enough to make it awkward, then turns and leaves. The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is thicker than before, pressing against my skin.

The tea kettle whistles, shrill and grating. I move to the stove, cutting the burner, pouring water into the cup. The tea spirals out in dark tendrils, bleeding into the water.

My mind drifts.

A fresh memory pushes in. Davis, standing by my fireplace, stoking it like he owned the place. The way he watched me too closely. Too comfortably.

The phone’s shrill ring yanks me back. I flinch, sloshing tea onto the counter.

I snatch the phone off the hook. “Hello?”

“Miss Anderson?” The voice is unfamiliar, male, sharp, professional.

“Yes,” I say cautiously, pulse thudding in my throat.

“This is Deputy Conrad with the sheriff’s office. I’m calling about a man named Grayson, a private investigator who may have visited you recently.” My grip on the counter tightens. “We received a report early this morning,” he continues, “Mrs. Wolfe called. Mr. Grayson failed to check in after his last assignment. Deputies were sent to his motel for a welfare check.”

The air feels thick.

“We found him deceased,” Conrad says evenly. “No signs of forced entry or visible trauma. The scene is being treated as suspicious until the autopsy’s complete.”

My chest goes cold. “You found him this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am. Around seven. Local authorities have the scene secured now. We’re contacting everyone he spoke to during his investigation. You were listed as a recent visit.”

“I see,” I manage. “He came by once. Asked questions about Mr. Wolfe. That’s all. The visit was brief, I didn’t have much information for him.”

Conrad hesitates, then says, “I see. If anything else comes to mind. If you remember hearing something around town, you can reach me directly.”

“Of course.”

“We would like to get this buttoned up before the feds get involved. You know how we like to keep things local. We don’t need strangers around these parts, do you agree?”

The line clicks dead before I can answer.

I lower the phone slowly, staring at nothing. The silence in the house feels thicker now, like the walls are listening.

If they found Grayson this morning… then why was Detective Davis at my door last night, asking about him like he already knew?

He didn’t act uncertain. He wasn’t following a lead, he was confirming something. Settled. Sure. Like the PI was already a body, not a missing man.

So why the disconnect?

Maybe Davis knew before the official call went out. A friend at dispatch. A whisper on the grapevine before the paperwork caught up. Small-town channels move sideways before they move forward.

But maybe it wasn’t that.

Maybe it was something darker.

Maybe Davis knew because he was supposed to know. Because whatever happened to Grayson wasn’t just bad luck or poor timing, it was deliberate. Covered. Coordinated.