Page 123 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

The tiny scissors clicked rhythmically through the quiet morning.

"The spacing is wrong," Gerald announced from somewhere near the stone border surrounding the herbs. I didn't bother looking up.

"It isn't."

"It objectively is."

Frank let out an exhausted sigh.

"Must every conversation with you become an agricultural emergency?"

"It becomes an agricultural emergency when someone plants rosemary less than eighteen inches from the roses."

"They're seventeen."

"They're sixteen and three quarters."

"They're happy."

"They're suffocating."

I smiled despite myself.

"They're fine."

"They're thriving," Frank agreed.

"They're surviving despite your questionable horticultural choices," Gerald corrected.

I clipped another fragrant stem, rubbing the fresh rosemary gently between my gloved fingers. The oils coated the canvas immediately, filling the air with that sharp, clean scent that always reminded me of old kitchens and Sunday lunches.

"I like them close together."

"Of course you do," Gerald sighed.

"You like everything close together."

I tilted my head.

"I do."

"Books."

"Plants."

"Thoughts."

Frank chuckled.

Crime scenes are funny things.

Well... Not funny. Interesting. People think crime scenes begin with violence. They don't. They begin with ordinary moments. Someone boils water. Someone folds laundry. Someone forgets to lock a window. Then one tiny decision nudges another, and suddenly an entire forensic team is standing where someone once made breakfast.

That's the fascinating part. Not the violence. The interruption. People also assume blood is the most interesting thing investigators find.

It isn't. Blood is theatrical. It sprays. Pools. Runs. It stains dramatically across white tile and expensive carpets because that's what blood does. It wants attention.

Shoes, however...