Maggie’s house smelled like cinnamon, bourbon, and trouble.
The afternoon sun filtered through gauzy rose-patterned curtains, casting soft amber light across the velvet-trimmed sitting room. Maggie’s house—an Art Deco gem perched on the edge of old town—looked like a pinup girl’s dream and a detective’s worst nightmare. Gilded mirrors, lipstick-red furniture, and a full wall of vintage records surrounded them like a curated fever dream. The bar cart sparkled with crystal decanters, and a porcelain bulldog lamp with rhinestone eyes gave Norma the side-eye from the corner.
Madeline stood near the doorway, arms crossed, trying to look calm but clearly vibrating with nerves.
Norma plopped onto a leopard-print fainting couch with the kind of authority only a woman in heels and trouble could
