Chapter 3: The Man With No Alibi

He smiled awkwardly. “I know it wasn’t ideal, but Emily’s home and the project were in different districts. I couldn’t take her. There was a main road nearby, so it wasn’t hard to get a cab. I was in a hurry, so I didn’t argue.”

He shrugged, as if that explained everything. I made a note of his casual tone.

After dropping off Emily, he took April into the city, she went home, and he drove to the project, working until nearly ten.

He rattled off his timeline like he was reading from a script. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed it.

Since he might be drinking with clients, he didn’t drive, but took materials by Uber to a nightclub, partied until dawn, then got a hotel room so he wouldn’t wake April. He only drove home the next day.

Uber receipts, ready to go. Almost too ready.

“Who knew, April thought I was out womanizing,” Greg said bitterly. “There were a few hostesses, but I didn’t do anything—just got some perfume on my clothes. April wouldn’t let it go. We fought, she left for her parents’ house, and I haven’t been able to make up with her yet.”

Half-laugh, no humor. Eyes on the door—already planning his next move.

At this point, we seemed to have hit a dead end.

Room felt heavy. Reed just stared at the flowers. I was ready to call it when he spoke.

But Rookie Reed suddenly asked, “Mr. Matthews, are you good at growing flowers?”

The question hung in the air, odd and out of place. Even I had to blink.

Both Greg and I were caught off guard.

Greg paused, then followed Reed’s gaze to the pots. He seemed to relax, as if talking about plants was a welcome break.

He glanced at the flowers by the coffee table and said it was just a hobby.

He explained he’d picked it up during rehab after the accident. Said it gave him something to nurture, something to control.

Flowers everywhere. Two empty pots by the table. One clivia—thick leaves, bright red bud. Soil still damp. Someone had just changed it.

The clivia was almost glowing, its bud like a little flame. I bent closer, noticing the faint smell of fresh earth and something burnt.

Rookie Reed nodded thoughtfully. “Clivia rarely blooms. This bud is beautiful—you must have tended it for years.”

He sounded genuinely impressed. Greg’s chest puffed up a bit, pride flickering across his face. It was the first real emotion I’d seen from him.

His words were abrupt, and just as I was about to cut in, he added, “With such careful care, you know you can’t repot it while it’s budding, right?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Greg’s smile faltered, his fingers tightening on the armrest.

That line made my skin crawl.

I suddenly remembered Emily’s husband mentioning she had a silk scarf—warm in winter, cool in summer, good quality and cheap, which she loved to wear. After her death, it was missing.

It hit me all at once. I remembered the scarf, the way Emily’s husband described it, and how it was nowhere to be found among her things.

I didn’t wait. Reached into the flowerpot. Pulled out a clump of burned fibers.

I tugged gently, and a handful of singed threads came away in my gloved hand. The smell was acrid, unmistakably synthetic.

At the same time, Rookie Reed headed toward the kitchen.

He moved quickly, his posture tense. Greg’s eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet.

Greg jumped up, blocked Reed, and refused to let him in, claiming the range hood was broken and the kitchen was full of smoke.

He stammered, "I just burned dinner—please, it’s a mess in there." But Reed didn’t buy it, and neither did I.

I put on gloves and told Reed to force his way in.

I braced myself, expecting a fight. Greg tried to block the doorway, but Reed was faster than he looked.

Greg was no match for Reed. In seconds, Reed had him pinned. I barked, “Be honest!” Greg shivered.

His bravado melted away. For a moment, he looked like a scared kid, not a suspect in a murder case.

A few minutes later, Reed came out with a set of kitchen knives.

He laid them on the table, one by one. The blades were spotless, except for the empty slot where the boning knife should’ve been.

Knives, all lined up. All spotless—except one was missing.

I could see the outline in the wooden block, the dust where the knife had sat undisturbed for years.

Reed looked at me, I looked at Greg, and his face turned ashen. He said nothing.

The silence stretched. Greg’s jaw clenched, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

It wasn’t hard to bring Greg in, but getting April to cooperate was another matter.

The next step was going to be trickier. April’s family had money and connections, and I knew they’d circle the wagons.

April’s father, Dr. Grant, was a university professor, and her mother, Linda Grant, ran a women’s wellness studio. They weren’t rich, but they were influential.

All glass, hardwood floors. Made me want to wipe my shoes twice. Dr. Grant met us at the door, arms crossed.

When he learned we were there about Greg, Dr. Grant immediately put on a stern face.

He looked down his nose at us, as if we were door-to-door salesmen instead of homicide detectives.

Linda, dusting a family photo, was more polite. She explained that April hadn’t slept for days, had just taken medicine, and was still resting.

She offered tea. Voice gentle, but I could see her sizing us up.

I asked her to wake April, but Dr. Grant slammed down his newspaper: “Are you asking my daughter to assist in an investigation, or are you arresting her? If you’re arresting her, show me the warrant!”

He was trying to intimidate us, but I’d seen tougher. I kept my voice calm, not rising to the bait.

Linda quickly tried to smooth things over, asking us to wait half an hour so April could rest.

She led us to the living room, apologized for the inconvenience, and promised April would be down soon. The tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Not unreasonable. April was home—supposedly pregnant. Reed and I kept an eye on the exits, just in case.

Still, I kept one eye on the back door, just in case. People do strange things when cornered.

Linda had the housekeeper make tea and cleared the coffee table for us. I glanced at the medicine box she moved and something felt off.

Fancy box. Specialty pharmacy. Valium, in big letters.

It was a box of Valium, mainly for anxiety and insomnia.

I picked it up, reading the dosage. My gut twisted. Pregnant women weren’t supposed to touch this stuff.

I blurted, “April taking this?”