Chapter Two: The Detective Pt. 1
1326 Words
Detective Samuel Rourke stood at the window of his narrow office, watching the mist press itself against the glass like a pale, faceless witness. The view was mostly the harbor, where lobster traps bobbed like broken promises, and the dark outlines of fishing boats rocked in protest against the wind. The Atlantic had a voice in this town. Today it was muttering.
His coffee had gone cold. Again.
On his desk, a file folder lay open thin, unsatisfying. Gideon Harrow: Age 49. Local magnate. Wealthy. Well-connected. Drowned. No visible signs of foul play. The word accident had already been circled twice in the initial report, like an official sigh.
Samuel didn’t believe in accidents. Not in places like this. Not when the dead man was found with his arms outstretched toward the cliffs like he’d been reaching for something or someone.
He picked up the folder and flipped through it again. The preliminary autopsy was vague. No water in the lungs odd for a drowning. Bruising on the head, possibly from the rocks. Possibly. Nothing definitive. Nothing that ruled out a shove.
He tapped a finger against the last page. Time of death: between 10PM and midnight. Evelyn Harrow’s statement had her asleep in bed by 9:30. Alone. No witnesses. No alibi.
And then there was the look on her face when she’d first seen him. Not fear. Not grief. Something quieter. Calculating.
There was something beneath that polished widow’s surface. Something flickering just under her skin.
And Rourke had made a career before the scandal of seeing flickers no one else could.
He slid the folder aside and opened a small, leather-bound notebook. The same one he always kept when a case didn’t feel right. The same notebook that had survived the investigation that ruined his badge in Boston.
Harrow Case: Day Two
• Spouse’s alibi weak.
• No water in lungs.
• Gideon seen drinking alone night of death? Witness needed.
• Evelyn composed, too composed?
• Request follow-up on Harrow finances.
• Find out who sent the damn letter.
His pen paused over the last line.
The letter.
It had arrived this morning, hand-delivered in a nondescript envelope, no return address. Meant for Evelyn. But the housekeeper Marjorie Finch had turned it over to the station after noticing the envelope smelled faintly of cologne and old paper.
He hadn’t read the contents yet. He’d wanted to see Evelyn’s reaction first.
Now, he opened the sealed evidence bag.
Inside was a folded piece of parchment. Expensive, watermarked. The ink had bled slightly from moisture. Still, the writing was careful, elegant, almost romantic in its restraint.
“I remember the way you laughed when he dropped the wine bottle.
The glass never shattered just spun on the floor like it was drunk too.
I think about that night often. The fire. The way your eyes shimmered.
You never knew I was watching.”
No signature. No threats. Just… memory. Private memory. Deeply intimate.
Samuel leaned back in his chair. There was no doubt about it now.
Someone was watching Evelyn Harrow.
And whoever it was they’d known things only Gideon Harrow should have known.
The drive to Harrow House was short but winding, the road slick with rain and salt. Cliffs edged one side like a jagged warning. The sea, gray and foaming, heaved below. Samuel kept one hand loosely on the wheel, the other resting on the sealed letter bag beside him. The house waited up ahead like a brooding witness silent, still, but not asleep.
It looked different in the day. Less spectral, more brittle. Ivy strangled the sides, shutters hung at odd angles, and the wrought iron gate groaned as he pushed it open by hand. The place wasn’t haunted. Not exactly. But it remembered things.
Marjorie opened the door before he knocked. Her eyes flicked down to the letter bag and then quickly away.
“She’s in the drawing room,” she said, voice clipped. “Same place.”
No offer of tea this time. No forced smile.
Evelyn was standing at the window, her back to the door. Same black dress. Same stillness. The fire was unlit. The room colder than before.
“You came quickly,” she said, without turning.
“You expected me?”
“I expected something. I didn’t expect the letter.”
He stepped forward slowly, letting the wood floor announce his presence. “Then you read it.”
She finally turned. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes now not smudged makeup, but something more primal. Sleeplessness. Uncertainty. Maybe fear.
“I’d like to know who’s been watching me,” she said.
Samuel studied her face. “So would I. Is it true?”
Her brow lifted.
“What the letter said. About the wine. The fire. Your eyes shimmering.”
A pause. Then a shallow breath.
“Yes,” she admitted. “It happened. Once. Years ago.”
“Then whoever wrote it was there.”
“Or… he told someone. Gideon. He had affairs. He wasn’t careful. Maybe he shared things.”
Samuel didn’t answer. He just set the letter bag on the table between them.
“Did you love him?”
Evelyn blinked.
“That’s not a legal question,” she said.
“No. It’s not.”
She moved to the fireplace, dragging a shawl across her shoulders. “He could be charming. In public. Private was different. He liked control. He liked rules. He liked watching things break and blaming the pieces.”
Samuel said nothing. His silence gave her room.
“You think I killed him,” she added.
“I think someone did. And I think you’re not telling me everything.”
A long beat passed. Her eyes drifted to the window. Rain traced lines down the glass like tears that didn’t belong to anyone.
“I didn’t push him,” she said softly. “I thought about it. I won’t pretend I didn’t. But no I didn’t.”
He believed her. Not fully. Not yet. But something in the quiet ache of her voice rang honest.
“I’ll need to come back,” he said. “Ask more questions. Look at Gideon’s things. His office, personal effects.”
She nodded. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll unlock his study.”
“And one more thing,” he said, stepping closer. “If another letter comes…”
“I’ll give it to you.”
Their eyes held.
Then: “You’re still wearing black,” he said.
“I’m still in mourning,” she replied.
And then, very quietly: “Aren’t we all?”
The door creaked like it had a grudge.
Inside, the Low Tide Tavern smelled of wet wood, brine, and old smoke that clung to the rafters like gossip. Midday and still dark inside. Just a sliver of gray light through salt-fogged windows. A jukebox blinked quietly in the corner broken, always was and a single overhead fan turned with the slow authority of a noose.
Samuel spotted Jonas Pike at the bar, hunched over a half-empty pint, the brim of his cap low enough to hide the scars that life hadn’t. One arm hung oddly, broken years ago and never quite right since. The other was nursing his drink like it might run away.
Rourke sat beside him. Didn’t speak right away. Let the room settle.
After a beat, Jonas muttered, “You ain’t local.”
Samuel glanced over. “You’re observant.”
Jonas snorted. “You’re the cop. The one sniffin’ round the Harrow woman.”
“You’ve seen her lately?”
“Not since the funeral.” Sip. “Didn’t go. Never liked her.”
“Why’s that?”
Jonas finally turned. His face was cracked leather. His eyes, watery blue and mean. “She walks like the town owes her silence.”
“Did you see Gideon the night he died?”
Silence. Then: “I saw his car. Up on the ridge.”
- Writer
