Complicated
RONNY’S POV
The cursor blinked on my screen like it was mocking me.
Focus, I told myself. Just focus.
But the harder I tried to glue my attention to the footage playing on my monitor, the more my mind kept drifting—back to her.
Liliana.
The way she’d stood in my living room like she owned it. The way her lips curved into that smug smile when she called herself my girlfriend in front of Hardin. The kiss that had stolen the air right out of my lungs, leaving me reeling like a rookie who didn’t know better.
I dragged a hand down my face and exhaled sharply. “Get your shit together, Ronny.”
The problem was—I couldn’t. Not completely. Because even now, sitting here in the stale air of my office with nothing but the hum of the computer for company, I could still taste her. Still hear her voice when she dropped that flash drive into my palm like it was nothing. Still see the flash in her eyes when she said, If you’re that angry to see me, I’ll leave.
And I’d let her.
I should’ve stopped her. Should’ve told her to stay. Should’ve said something—anything—other than standing there like a fucking statue while she walked out.
But instead, here I was, hours later, staring at surveillance footage like the answers I needed would suddenly crawl out of the pixels.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. This case wasn’t just about Evelyn Arthur anymore. It was about the way her daughter had tangled herself into it—and into me. And that was dangerous.
She was a client. That’s all she was supposed to be. Nothing more.
But try telling that to the part of me that replayed her kiss on a loop.
With a frustrated growl, I turned my attention back to the screen.
The footage rolled in muted silence, Evelyn moving through her life as if nothing was wrong. Business meetings. Dinners. Charity galas. A woman who looked composed, confident, untouchable. But if you looked closer—really looked—there were cracks.
I froze the frame.
There.
Her face tight, her hand gripping a glass of champagne like it was an anchor. Across from her sat her husband, Gregory Arthur, posture rigid, eyes hard. The audio wasn’t there, but I didn’t need sound to recognize a fight when I saw one.
I rewound. Played it again. Same scene, different angle. Evelyn leaning forward, lips moving fast, her expression a blend of fury and desperation. Gregory’s jaw clenched, his hand slamming against the table.
I leaned closer, my pulse quickening.
This wasn’t the polished public image they liked to sell. This was raw. Ugly. The kind of argument that came from betrayal or buried secrets.
“What the hell were you two fighting about?” I muttered under my breath.
I fast-forwarded through more clips. Evelyn leaving her house with her assistant, phone pressed to her ear. Evelyn at a boutique, face pale, shoulders tight, her movements jerky like she was running on fumes. Evelyn at another gala, her laugh a little too sharp, her smile a little too forced.
The longer I watched, the more I saw it—stress eating away at her, chipping at her mask.
I scrubbed through the footage again, telling myself to stay focused, but then—dammit—my eyes snagged on a different frame.
Liliana.
She was in the background. She looked like a woman cataloging every detail, every word, every slight.
My chest tightened. I shouldn’t be staring at her. Shouldn’t be distracted by her when I had a job to do.
But there I was.
Staring.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, shoving away from the desk so hard my chair rolled back and hit the wall.
I couldn’t do this here. Not tonight.
I needed air.
I grabbed my jacket, shoving my arms through the sleeves as I stormed out of my office. The hallways were dark and silent, the city outside cloaked in its own restless hush. By the time I hit the street, the night air was sharp in my lungs, cooling the fire in my blood.
I knew where I had to go.
The crash site.
It had been over six months, but maybe—just maybe—there was something left. Something the police had missed, something scrubbed over in the neat little package of their official report.
The drive out of the city felt longer than it should’ve. My headlights cut through the darkness, the coastal road winding like a serpent. The ocean glimmered in the distance, silver under the moon, the sound of waves crashing faint even through the rolled-up windows.
Finally, I pulled over.
The spot where Evelyn’s Bentley had gone off the road was marked by a bent guardrail, rust streaking down its twisted metal. The weeds had grown high around it, reclaiming the ground, but the scar of the crash was still there. The dirt was darker, the rocks scattered like bones.
I climbed out, the gravel crunching under my boots, and walked to the edge.
The drop was steep. Jagged rocks waited below, silent witnesses to the violence of that night.
I crouched near the rail, running my hand over the warped metal. The impact had been brutal. Fatal. But something about it still didn’t sit right.
I paced the shoulder of the road, scanning the pavement with my flashlight. Skid marks. Faint, almost gone, but there. Short. Too short. Not enough for a desperate attempt to stop.
My stomach twisted.
Minimal braking. Just like the report said.
Which meant either Evelyn hadn’t tried—or she hadn’t been able to.
I rubbed my jaw, frustration gnawing at me.
I’d gone through every angle. Mechanical failure? Unlikely, given the maintenance records. Driver error? Not her style. Which left two possibilities.
Someone had tampered with her car.
Or someone had tampered with her.
I sank down onto the guardrail, staring into the darkness below. The thought hit me like a hammer.
What if she’d been drugged?
That would explain the lack of braking. The lack of reaction. A sudden loss of consciousness, a body too sluggish to respond.
And if that was the case… then the refusal to allow an autopsy made sense.
Not because it wasn’t necessary.
But because it would’ve revealed something nobody wanted found.
I clenched my fists until my knuckles ached.
It fit. It all fucking fit.
But that left one question. The one that had been circling my mind since the moment I took this case.
Who killed Evelyn Arthur?
Her husband? He had motive, money, and opportunity. Her business rivals? Plenty of them would’ve benefitted from her death. Or maybe… maybe it was someone closer. Someone she trusted.
I dragged both hands through my hair, my frustration boiling over.
This wasn’t just a puzzle anymore. This was a labyrinth. Every corner I turned led me deeper into shadows. And the deeper I went, the more I realized I wasn’t just chasing Evelyn’s ghost.
I was chasing Liliana’s too.
Because no matter how hard I tried to separate her from this case, the truth was—she was at the center of it. Her mother’s fire burned in her, her secrets wrapped tight around her like armor. And if Evelyn’s death was a message, then maybe—just maybe—that message wasn’t meant for Evelyn at all.
Maybe it was meant for Liliana.
The thought made my blood run cold.
I stood, my jaw tight, the ocean’s roar echoing in the distance.
I didn’t have answers yet.
But I knew one thing.
This wasn’t an accident.
And whoever had killed Evelyn Arthur was still out there.
Watching. Waiting.
And if I wasn’t careful, they were going to come for Liliana next.
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