Page 45 of Rest In Peace

"Patterns speak, Ryan. They're screaming," I insisted, feeling the heat of conviction in my veins. "I can't ignore them."

"Patterns?" His laugh was bitter, edged with frustration. "You think this is some kind of game? You think you can just waltz in and solve the puzzle?"

"Someone has to," I shot back, my grip on the phone tightening until the plastic groaned in protest. "Because there's a killer out there, and I'm not content sitting back while they're free to strike again."

"Damn it, this isn't your job!" The detective's voice was a whip, each word lashing out. "You're tampering with evidence, harassing witnesses. You're lucky I don't haul you in for obstruction."

"Then, do it," I challenged, heart thudding with fear and determination. "If that's what it takes to get you to see beyond your report?—"

"See what? Your delusions?" Ryan's anger was palpable, a force that threatened to crush through the phone line. "I'm warning you; back off, or there will be consequences."

"Consequences," I repeated softly, almost to myself. "Like the ultimate consequence Nicki and Steven faced?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end, a momentary break in his assault. But I knew, even as we hung on the precipice of understanding, that the divide between us had never been more pronounced.

"Adam's not grieving. He's hiding something," I said, each word a bullet of conviction.

"Enough!" Ryan's voice cracked like thunder, a storm unleashed. "What do you know about grief? About loss?"

"More than you think."

"Your theories—wild accusations! You're stepping into quicksand."

"Maybe," I conceded, "but at least I’m not blinded by procedure."

"Blinded?" The detective's snarl was almost visible. "You have the audacity to question my competence?"

"Questioning isn't a crime, Detective. Not yet."

"Your 'investigation' is a joke. What are you really after? You want your name remembered? Some twisted sense of justice?"

"Justice doesn't twist," I shot back, "people do. Let's talk evidence, then," I said, the cool edge in my voice a stark contrast to his heated barbs. Sarah's phone records show calls to Steven at all hours—pleas for help."

"Harassment," Ryan countered. "He was looking to move on. She couldn't let go."

My fingers drummed on the kitchen counter, keeping time with my racing heart. "And Adam's financials? I had a good look at them earlier. Lots of transactions that don't add up. Money flowing like a river between accounts."

"Coincidences. You're building castles in the sky!" Ryan spat out the words. “I’ve already talked to him about that; he owes some people money.”

"Am I?" I leaned forward, my shadow stretching across the pile of photographs and notes littering the table. Or am I the only one willing to dive deep enough to see the murky truths below?"

"Deep? You're drowning in your obsession!" His voice rose, a crescendo of fury.

"Perhaps," I admitted, "but even in the depths, patterns emerge. Patterns you're ignoring. He has a motive. A pretty good one."

"Patterns? Motives?" The scoff in his voice was bitter. "You think you've got it all figured out from behind your desk? This is my case."

"Better than ignoring what's right in front of me."

"Right in front—?" he sputtered, incredulous. "You have no idea what you're meddling with!"

"Meddling?" I echoed sharply.

"Fantasies!" he yelled. "You latch onto fantasies because you can't handle reality!"

"Reality?" I pressed the phone closer to my ear, my voice steady despite the storm raging through the line. This hit me hard. Was I really just trying to avoid having to deal with my boyfriend being in a wheelchair? With the guilt I felt for him being in this situation? "The reality is that someone is dead. Two people are dead. And we owe it to them to look at every angle."

"Every angle?" His laugh was harsh and humorless. "You mean your angle."

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