Chapter 3: Ghosts and Cover Stories

This was Maple Heights—folks called the cops for a lost dog. But not here, not with Dalton in the mix. My gut twisted tighter.

Something was wrong. Figuring out what killed Evan might be my only chance to keep this investigation alive.

If I didn’t get answers, nobody would.

I scanned the place, Savannah trailing me, jittery as a stray cat.

She hovered behind, gnawing at her thumbnail. I caught her glancing at the door, weighing her options.

Evan was slumped on the couch. On his right, a used syringe. Fresh needle mark on his left arm. The syringe was empty.

The needle glinted in the morning sun, a tiny bead of blood still clinging to the tip. I’d seen enough ODs to know what I was looking at.

On the coffee table: an alcohol burner, tiny packets with white powder residue, prescription bottles, and knickknacks—all lined up by height and color.

It was almost ritualistic—everything lined up like a store display. Either he was OCD, or someone was staging a scene. I filed it away.

The rest of the house? Spotless. No signs of a struggle.

No broken glass, no overturned chairs, nothing. Whoever did this either Evan trusted, or they were a ghost.

I checked every door and window—no forced entry.

Every lock was intact, no scratches or splinters. Whoever got in either had a key or was expected.

“You said the door was open when you got here?”

She nodded, eyes huge. “Yeah. Evan’s pretty chill. If he’s busy, he leaves the door unlocked for me. If I bring something and he doesn’t answer, I just drop it on the table. It’s happened before. I figured it was the same this time.”

I made a mental note—old habits make you vulnerable.

“When’d you last see him?”

She thought for a second. “Yesterday afternoon, around six. I dropped off some papers. He took them himself.”

Her voice wobbled. I could see her replaying every detail, second-guessing herself.

After checking the body, I asked, “Did you know Evan used drugs?”

I watched her face closely, searching for any flicker of guilt or recognition.

“What?” Savannah looked genuinely shocked. “You mean the syringe—”

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide in horror. She looked blindsided, like the ground had dropped out beneath her.

I nodded. “Exactly. Not just the syringe—the stuff on the table, too. High-grade, for inhaling. Back when I worked nights, I saw this stuff all the time. My nose doesn’t lie.”

The chemical tang in the air was faint, but unmistakable. Muscle memory from years on the force.

Besides Savannah’s perfume, I caught a faint trace of another woman’s scent—floral, expensive, not Savannah’s usual. Someone else had been here last night. I tucked that detail away.

“I really didn’t know,” she whispered.