The week slipped through my fingers, each day blurring into the next faster than I would have liked. I finally got a hold of the fire chief, and with a solid word from Michelle, he agreed to meet with me the following week. Relief settled in, though it was tinged with impatience. I had questions—more than I could count. The missing fire extinguisher gnawed at me, an itch I couldn't scratch. It had no obvious connection to Ben's disappearance, but it loomed large in my thoughts, refusing to be ignored.
In the meantime, I managed to get a new phone and number. Since then, no additional threats, odd texts, or anonymous calls had come through. The silence was both a balm and a trigger, soothing my nerves but leaving me hyper-aware of its implications. Without the disturbing messages, it felt like the threat had receded, but the absence also left me stranded in uncertainty. For a P.I., being stuck without answers felt like walking barefoot on gravel—annoying, painful, and endless. I updated all of my contacts on my new number.
When I told Layla about my date, her reaction was as predictable as it was dramatic. She screamed like I'd just won the lottery, her excitement spilling over into every corner of the conversation. Tonight, she'd insisted on taking the night off to help me get ready. I'd tried, and failed, to talk her out of it. Of course, her ulterior motive became clear when she casually mentioned wanting to meet Graham.
Layla had always been the protective type—like a mother, if my mother had ever been half as involved. She could be overbearing, sure, but it came from a place of love. She'd seen me at my absolute worst, after the attack that left my life in shambles. When everyone else disappeared, Layla stayed. She patched me up, let me cry, and never once made me feel like I was broken. She actually made sure I had some of the best doctors work on my reconstruction so to speak. I am lucky that my scars are not worse. That is also because of her.
Because of that, I would love her until the end of time. Layla wasn't just my best friend; she was my family. The one bright, unwavering light in my life, full of chaos and shadows. With her around, I was never truly alone.
On Saturday, Layla rummaged through my closet, her disapproving sighs punctuating the air. She flipped through hangers, shaking her head at my usual black-on-black wardrobe. She'd always hated my style, calling it "the uniform of someone trying to disappear." Apparently, it wasn't date-worthy either.
With an exaggerated huff, she disappeared into her own room. Moments later, she returned triumphantly, arms loaded with options. Layla and I were close in size, so her wardrobe often became my backup—especially when she went through one of her extreme diet phases. Those usually ended with me inheriting her brightly colored cast-offs, much to her delight and my chagrin.
"This is perfect!" she declared, holding up a red dress that barely skimmed the knee. The neckline plunged low, and the fabric was light and flowing—everything I never wore. "This will bring out your... everything," she added with a wink.
Without waiting for my nod, Layla dug deeper into my closet, emerging victorious with a pair of black stilettos still nestled in their box. A gift from last year—Christmas? Hanukkah?—they'd remained untouched, collecting dust on the shelf.
"These are perfect," she said, holding them aloft like a trophy. "You're wearing them tonight."
I groaned, collapsing backward onto my bed. "Are you trying to kill me?"
She smirked, settling herself next to Tybalt, who promptly leaned into her hand as she stroked his head. "Nope. But when you see yourself, you're going to wonder why you didn't trust me sooner."
Reluctantly, I slipped into the dress, Layla zipping it up with practiced ease. The fabric hugged me more snugly than I'd expected, but not in the mortifying way I feared. My scars—the ones I usually kept hidden—were visible, but not as glaring as I'd imagined. For the first time in years, I looked… pretty.
I slipped on the stilettos, wobbling slightly as Layla beamed at me like a proud parent. "You're a knockout," she declared, gently scratching behind Tybalt's ears. He purred lazily, unbothered by my transformation.
I bent down to kiss him on the head. "Traitor," I muttered. He blinked at me, thoroughly unimpressed, and pressed himself closer to Layla.
Grabbing a black wrap, I tried to convince myself it was just in case it got cold. Truthfully, it felt like armor. Layla had curled my hair, and while the volume felt excessive to me, her grin of satisfaction stopped me from arguing. One final glance at her approving smile, and I was out the door and into the car I'd ordered.
As the car wound through the streets, I found myself gripping the edge of my wrap tighter with every passing minute. A thousand times, I considered telling the driver to turn around. My mouth opened, ready to speak, but the words never came. Instead, a strange mixture of nerves and anticipation settled in my chest.
Anticipation? That didn't make sense. I wasn't the type to look forward to anything besides work. This wasn't me.
Lost in thought, I didn't notice the car stop until the driver cleared his throat. Startled, I glanced up and forced a smile before stepping out.
Lola's Place loomed in front of me, its warm glow spilling out onto the street. For a moment, I just stood there, heart thundering in my chest.
I spotted him before he noticed me. Graham stood outside, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and intense as he spoke to someone. I slowed my pace, hesitant to interrupt his conversation. As I approached, his eyes caught mine, and just like that, his focus shifted entirely.
"HHHHEEEELLLLLOOOOO!!! Are you still there?" the voice on the other end demanded, crackling through the phone.
"Uh, yeah, I need to go," Graham said, his tone distracted.
"Wait, you still need to—" The caller's words were cut off as Graham hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket with a practiced ease. His gaze locked on me, and a warm smile spread across his face.
"You look incredible," he said, his voice soft yet sincere.
Heat flushed my cheeks as I returned his smile. "Thank you. You clean up well yourself."
He chuckled, offering me his arm. "Shall we?"
I looped my arm through his, and he led me inside. The moment we stepped through the doors, it was as if I had entered another world. The unassuming exterior gave no hint of the grandeur within. The foyer alone was breathtaking, dripping with old-world elegance that transported me straight into an Italian villa. Gold and silver accents shimmered under the soft glow of chandeliers, while a live band played a lilting melody that floated above the polished marble floor. Paintings adorned the walls—each one a masterpiece that demanded a second glance. It felt less like a restaurant and more like stepping into a private museum.
The dining room buzzed softly, with a scattering of elegantly dressed diners at their tables. Standing at the host station was an elderly man with snowy white hair, peppered faintly with traces of its former darkness. His posture was stooped slightly, and he leaned on a cane as if it had borne the weight of many years. Despite his age, his sharp eyes gleamed with life.
"This is my grandfather, Roman Stover," Graham said, his tone softer than usual. "PopPop, this is Cricket. She's my—" He hesitated, the word lingering unspoken.
"Friend," I interjected, stepping forward and offering my hand. "Cricket Clarke. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Roman's face split into a wide smile as he gripped my hand with surprising strength, shaking it so vigorously that I nearly bounced on my heels. "Friend, eh?" he said, his tone teasing as he gave Graham a sideways glance. "Call me Roman. Any friend of Graham's—" he lingered on the word "friend"—"is welcome here."
"Thank you, Roman. This place is stunning," I said, unable to keep my awe from slipping into my voice. "I've never seen anything like it."
Roman's eyes twinkled as he gave a modest shake of his head. "Then we'll make sure tonight is one you won't forget."
He led us through the dining area, his cane tapping softly against the marble floor. The deeper we went, the more the space revealed its beauty. Each corner seemed designed to dazzle, with plush seating and intricate woodwork that whispered of craftsmanship long forgotten. As we passed, a few diners glanced our way, their eyes lingering just a moment too long. My dress, bold and striking in its simplicity, was a stark contrast to their understated elegance, but I held my head high, walking with confidence.
One woman, seated at a nearby table, leaned toward her dining companion, clutching her arm as she whispered something. Though I couldn't hear the words, I could feel the weight of their attention. You always know when someone's talking about you. Still, I let their glances roll off me, keeping my stride steady and my focus forward. This night wasn't about them.
Roman led us to a cozy booth tucked into the corner of the restaurant, perfectly positioned to overlook the entire room. It wasn't just any booth—it was a love seat, forcing us to sit side by side. His grandfather's matchmaking efforts were anything but subtle. A small band played near the center of the room, their rendition of classic and contemporary pop songs weaving a pleasant atmosphere. They were good—good enough that I found myself tapping my fingers lightly on the edge of the table.
"Sorry about him," I said, trying to mask my embarrassment with a soft laugh. "He gets a little overexcited when he meets anyone I bring around."
Graham nodded with a faint smile, his head tilting slightly as he studied me.
"I mean it," I added, chuckling nervously. "Really, I'm being honest."
"Okay," he said simply, his voice warm and easy. Picking up his menu, he glanced over it before turning his attention back to me. "What would you recommend?"
Before I could answer, he plucked the menu from my hands with a mischievous grin. A waiter appeared as if on cue, balancing a bottle of wine and two delicate glasses. He uncorked it with a flourish, pouring a small amount for Graham to taste. Graham swirled the wine in his glass, took a sip, and gave a decisive nod. The waiter smiled and filled both glasses before disappearing with the menus in hand.
"Do you have any allergies?" Graham asked suddenly, catching me off guard.
I shook my head, and he smiled, leaning back in his seat as if that settled everything.
"So... no ordering?" I asked, my eyebrow arching as I smirked at him.
"Not here," he said, his grin widening. "My Pop Pop would lose his mind if I even tried."
We chatted idly until the waiter appeared, placing a small plate of toast and caviar between us. I hesitated, the sight of the glossy black pearls stirring faint memories. The sharp, briny taste was something I hadn't experienced often—only on holidays when my parents decided to indulge. Despite the trust fund my grandparents left me, my parents lived modestly, stubbornly rejecting any financial help. Our dinners were simple most of the year, but Christmas and Thanksgiving? Those were extravagant.
I took a bite. The familiar burst of flavor was vivid, luxurious, and unexpectedly comforting. Graham watched me, a faint smile playing on his lips as I savored each bite. By the time the second course arrived, I was practically licking my plate.
Graham chuckled and reached for the wine bottle, refilling my glass with an effortless grace that made the moment feel too perfect. I caught myself leaning back, caught between sinking into the warmth of the evening and the weight of reality pressing against my thoughts.
"So, the case—" I started, breaking the spell.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady but curious. "Tell me what you really think. No sugarcoating."
I sighed, swirling the wine in my glass. "Right now, it's not looking great. Everything points to him stalking her and running. I'm meeting with the fire chief next week, though. There's something about the fire that doesn't sit right."
"Something about the fire?" he asked, his brow lifting.
I nodded. "I've seen photos of the scene. There are... odd details. It could all have normal explanations, but I need to be sure. For one, there was no fire extinguisher found on-site, which is strange for a place like that. And then there's the new foundation—"
"They're rebuilding already?"
"Yes. The restaurant hadn't even been constructed yet. Why go through the trouble? Why not sell the land?" I shook my head. "All the same, the evidence still leans toward him leaving. You know the saying: when you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras. Sorry to be so blunt, but you did ask."
"I did." He leaned forward, his fingers brushing mine on the table. His touch sent a jolt up my arm, and his thumb began tracing slow, deliberate circles over my skin. My cheeks warmed despite my best efforts.
Before he could speak again, a sharp clearing of someone's throat cut through the air.
I turned, startled, to see a tall woman standing at the edge of our table. Her fiery red hair, impossibly vibrant, framed a face painted to perfection. Her lips, as red as her hair, curled into a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. She looked like she'd just stepped off the cover of a glossy magazine.
"Brooke," Graham said, his tone cooling by several degrees.
"Graham," she purred, circling the table to wrap him in an exaggerated hug. She ignored me entirely, her hands lingering a beat too long on his shoulders before she pulled back. "Lovely to see you."
"What are you doing here, Brooke?" His tone didn't waver, but there was an edge now, sharp and unmistakable.
"Me? Oh, Shane and I wanted dinner. This is the only place in town I adore—though you already know that." Her eyes flicked to me, her lips twitching with faint amusement. "We always try to support our family."
"Family?" The word slipped out before I could stop myself, my voice softer than I intended.
Brooke's head turned toward me with glacial precision, her eyes dragging over me like I was something unpleasant she'd stepped in. Her lips curled upward, but it wasn't a smile—it was more of a sneer, her disdain radiating like heat from a fire.
"We're engaged," she said finally, her words clipped and sharp, like she couldn't be bothered to waste a syllable on me. Then, as though I'd ceased to exist, she pivoted back to Graham.
His frown deepened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Were engaged," he corrected, his tone cold enough to frost glass. "Not anymore. I'm sure you understand, Brooke—when you're engaged, you're not supposed to sleep with other people. Especially not one of my friends."
Her carefully sculpted features faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, brushing a strand of fiery hair over her shoulder like it was no more significant than a stray thread.
I opened my mouth, uncertain of what to say, but no words came. Closing it again, I chose silence, shrinking back into my chair as the tension at the table rose to a deafening pitch. Brooke and Graham volleyed sharp words back and forth, their voices low but laced with venom.
When the next course arrived, I focused on my plate, slicing into the delicate dish as though it were the most riveting thing I'd ever seen. The flavors were lost on me; my attention remained on the spectacle unfolding beside me. It was messy, dramatic, and far more entertaining than I'd anticipated this evening to be—until Brooke turned her fire directly on me.
"And you embarrass me," she hissed, her voice rising enough to draw a few glances from nearby tables. "Walking around with this... roadkill trailer trash."
I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth.
Her manicured finger jabbed in my direction as her eyes narrowed into slits. "How could you bring her to your grandfather's place? Look at her! She looks like a goddamn road map." Her sneer deepened as her gaze locked on my head. "What is that? Did someone shoot you or something?"
The words landed like a slap, the sting radiating through me as silence seemed to ripple across the restaurant. The surrounding diners paused mid-conversation, their gazes flickering in our direction, curiosity sharpening the air. My skin burned under their scrutiny, but the anger bubbling in my chest pushed everything else aside.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I threw my napkin onto the table. "Listen here, bitch," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "I will not be disrespected by the likes of you."
Brooke's eyes widened, surprise flaring across her face. "What—"
"You heard me," I interrupted, leaning forward just enough to make my point clear. "I don't like to repeat myself, but since you don't seem to be keeping up, let me make it plain. No one wants you here. I know I don't. And who the hell do you think you are to speak to me like that?"
I grabbed my shawl from the back of my chair, draping it over my shoulders with a sharp motion.
"How dare you!" she sputtered, her voice rising with indignation. "Do you have any idea who I am? My father is Henry VanSmyth."
I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "I don't give a damn if your name is VanSmyth or Julia Roberts. You keep running your mouth, and my fist is going to meet your front teeth." I leaned in closer, my voice low and steady. "I live in the world of fuck around and find out. Do you really want to find out?"
Brooke's mouth flapped like a fish on dry land before she finally spat out, "Well, I never."
"Oh, grab your pearls, you stupid bitch," I said, my voice sharp enough to slice through steel.
Her face flushed crimson, her jaw tightening as she whirled toward Graham. "Graham, really? You're going to let her talk to me like that?"
"Let her?" I cut in before he could respond, my laugh cold and bitter. "Let me? Fuck you. I don't need anyone's permission to say what's on my mind."
Brooke squared her shoulders and dismissed me with a flick of her hand, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're nothing to me. Just a loudmouth with no class."
That did it. The fire in my chest roared to life, and I was done holding back. Normally, I didn't throw my name around, but this time? This time, she had it coming.
I stepped closer, my voice steady and low. "I don't think I introduced myself properly. You're looking at the one and only heir to the Clarke estate. You know, their only granddaughter—"
"The one with the stupid name," she interrupted, sneering. "What is it again?"
"Cricket Clarke," I said, my tone like the snap of a whip. "And I'd say it's nice to meet you, but we both know that's a lie."
Her confidence faltered, and she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. I watched as the blood drained from her face, her eyes widening. The room seemed to collectively hold its breath, the quiet hum of whispers spreading like wildfire.
Her head shot up, her voice sharp but trembling. "I don't believe you."
I shrugged, unfazed. "I really don't care."
Her face twisted as if she wanted to say more, but the words never came. Graham stepped forward, his presence a solid wall beside me. "I think you should leave," he said, his voice calm but firm.
Brooke opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut, shooting me one last venomous glare before storming off.
The silence in the restaurant felt almost deafening, and I could feel Graham's eyes on me. Slowly, the buzz of conversation returned around us, but I was still riding the high of putting that woman in her place.
I met Graham's gaze, my chest tightening with every passing second. My voice came out barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything I couldn't say. "This was a mistake."
His eyes widened, the crease between his brows deepening as though he hadn't heard me right—or didn't want to believe it.
Brooke, ever the vulture, swooped in. "It was. You don't belong with someone like Graham," she said, her words sharp enough to draw blood.
Her lips parted, likely to twist the knife further, but I didn't give her the chance. I turned on my heel, my shawl slipping from my shoulder as I walked away, my steps quick and unsteady.
"Cricket!" Graham's voice cut through the murmur of the restaurant, rising above the clink of silverware and muted conversations.
I didn't stop. I didn't even glance back. His voice was pleading now, but I kept moving, pushing past a waiter carrying a tray of desserts, the scent of chocolate and vanilla briefly mingling with the bitterness in my chest.
This was a mistake. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of my own choices pressing down on me. I should've known better. I did know better. Dating him—it was doomed from the start. He was a client. It was messy. It was stupid.
By the time I reached the exit, my heart was pounding. The cool night air hit me like a slap, and I inhaled sharply, the cold biting against my skin. My hands trembled as I gripped the edge of my shawl, pulling it tighter around me.
I hated myself at that moment. For letting my guard down. For believing, even for a second, that this could've been different. This always happens. The moment I let myself relax, something—or someone—always reminded me why I shouldn't. I stood outside waiting for the car when Graham's voice caught me by surprise.
"I'm sorry," Graham said, his voice low and urgent. "I swear I had no idea she would be here. She was completely out of line." His eyes searched mine, pleading. "Please don't leave."
I stood there, the cool night air wrapping around me, but I didn't reply. My throat felt tight, the words tangled somewhere between anger and embarrassment. My car pulled up to the curb, the headlights briefly illuminating us in a harsh, unforgiving glare.
I took a step toward the car, my heels clicking sharply against the pavement. My hand reached for the door handle—but then I stopped, my reflection staring back at me in the window. I am the storm.
I turned back to face him, my voice steady but sharp. "No. I don't think your fiancée would like that very much."
The color drained from his face, his shoulders sagging as though my words physically struck him. For a moment, he looked smaller, sadder than I ever thought possible.
"She isn't," he started, his voice cracking slightly. "Please. At least let me explain."
I glanced at the cab driver, who pointed at the meter, his expression neutral but clearly impatient. The numbers ticked up, each second chipping away at the time I had to decide.
I exhaled, the tension leaving my body like a deflated balloon. "Get in," I said finally, pulling the door open. "We'll get some dessert."
Relief washed over his face as he followed me into the car, but I didn't look at him. My gaze stayed fixed out the window as the car pulled away, the weight of the evening still pressing heavily on my chest.