BOONE
BOONE
The house isn’t what I expected.
Pulling up to the curb, I double-check the address Miller sent and then glance at the small, single-story home in front of me.
It’s not falling apart, but it’s got that look—like it used to be well taken care of, and then life just got in the way.
The paint on the shutters is chipping, the lawn is patchy in some spots, and the porch light is on even though it’s daylight.
I’m barely parked when another car rolls up behind me.
Miller.
She climbs out in a fitted designer skirt and blazer, heels clicking against the pavement like she’s about to walk into a corporate office instead of paying someone a visit on their front porch.
I lean against Lucille and cross my arms. “That’s how you dress at nine in the morning?”
Miller adjusts the bag on her shoulder and gives me a once-over. “That’s how you dress at nine in the morning?”
I glance down at my dusty jeans, scuffed boots, and the T-shirt that probably smells like sweat and cow shit. “I’m a rancher, Miller. I’m supposed to look like this.”
She sighs dramatically. “And I’m supposed to look like I bill people five hundred dollars an hour to be a bitch. Which, by the way, I do. ”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
She strides toward the house like she owns it, but I catch her arm before she makes it to the steps. “Hold up. How the hell did you even get this address?”
She smirks. “You really wanna know?”
“No.”
She grins. “Let’s just say I have connections.”
“That’s not concerning at all.”
She waves a hand. “Relax, cowboy. It’s just a little research. Pulled the lady’s name from the state employee database, cross-checked property records, and voilà.” She gestures to the house. “Rose Weaver.”
I stare at her. “That’s…disturbingly efficient.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know. It’s like I actually know what I’m doing or something.”
I rub a hand down my face. “So what’s the plan?”
“We knock,” she says, like I’m an idiot.
I shoot her a look. “Great start, smartass. What if she doesn’t want to talk?”
Miller shrugs. “Then we make her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You really gotta stop saying things that sound borderline illegal.”
She grins. “Borderline illegal is my specialty.”
I mutter a curse and glance at the house again. “Maybe let me take the lead on this one. You’re kind of—”
“If you say ‘intimidating,’ I will hit you with my purse.”
I smirk. “I was gonna say ‘terrifying,’ but sure, let’s go with intimidating.”
Miller scowls and starts up the porch steps. “Try to keep up, cowboy.”
I sigh and follow, wondering what the hell I’ve signed up for.
The porch creaks beneath our steps, the wood worn and weathered. It’s been repainted too many times instead of being replaced. There’s a potted plant by the railing—half-dead, the soil cracked and dry. The mailbox leans slightly to the right, its rusted hinges barely hanging on .
Small details, easy to overlook. But my brain catalogs them automatically, old habits from years of assessing unfamiliar places kicking in. No car in the driveway. No lights on inside except for a single lamp by the window. No security cameras that I can see.
Miller stops at the door, knocking twice. Sharp, precise. The knock of someone who doesn’t expect to be ignored.
I take a step back, letting her take the lead while I keep my eyes on the street. A car rolls by slow, too slow, before speeding up at the corner. I glance at the neighbors’ houses—curtains twitching, someone watching from a second-story window.
Something about all of it doesn’t sit right.
A lock clicks, then the door cracks open just enough for me to see a pair of dark eyes.
Rose Weaver is older than I expected—mid-fifties, maybe early sixties.
Lines around her mouth like she’s spent a lot of her life frowning with short, wiry gray hair, and a frame so thin it looks like the wind could knock her over.
She’s in an oversized cardigan and a faded t-shirt, one slipper-clad foot peeking out from behind the door.
Her gaze sweeps over me first, instinctively wary of the large man standing on her porch in dirty cowboy boots and a baseball cap. Then she shifts to Miller, her eyes narrowing. “Can I help you?”
I don’t miss how her free hand grips the doorframe like she’s already decided she might have to slam it shut. Or how her gaze flicks over our shoulders, checking the street the same way I did.
Miller doesn’t hesitate. “Ms. Weaver? I’m Miller Ashford, and this is Boone Wilding. We were hoping to ask you a couple of questions about your job with the county health department.”
Rose’s grip tightens on the door. “I don’t work for them anymore.”
“I know.” Miller’s voice is smooth. “But we were hoping you could help clarify something about a recent inspection for The Bluebell Diner.”
Her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Miller tilts her head slightly, studying her. “That’s interesting, because it was your name listed on the initial report for the Bluebell Diner. You inspected it a few weeks ago. We just have a couple of questions, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Rose’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”
I catch the way her fingers twitch, the slightest tremor in her hand.
Miller sighs, as if she’s done with this conversation already.
“Ms. Weaver, if you don’t want to talk to us, we can always take this to the county office and request an official investigation into falsified reports.
” She lets the words sink in before adding, “I have a lot of time on my hands, and I love a good legal battle.”
Rose exhales sharply through her nose. “You a lawyer or something like that?”
Miller smiles. “Something like that.”
For a long moment, Rose just stands there, jaw clenched tight, eyes darting back to the street.
Then, finally, she huffs, mutters something under her breath, and steps back.
“Fine. But make it quick.”
She opens the door just enough to let us in. I exchange a glance with Miller before following her inside.
The house is small and tidy, but there’s an underlying sense of neglect, like it’s been kept up just enough to not fall apart.
The furniture is old, probably decades old, the kind that used to be nice but now just looks tired.
A beige couch with worn-in cushions, a wooden coffee table covered in magazines that haven’t been moved in a while.
The air smells faintly of stale coffee and something floral, like a candle burned down to the wick days ago.
I clock the details automatically, the same way I was trained to.
One front window, slightly cracked open.
No back door in sight, which means the only exit is behind us.
Curtains drawn tight over every window. A framed photo on the shelf near the TV—Rose with a man, probably her late husband, and a boy who looks about ten, though there aren’t any signs of a child living here now .
Rose gestures toward the couch. “Sit if you want.”
I stay standing, leaning against the arm of the couch instead, arms crossed. Miller lowers herself into the chair across from Rose, crossing her legs at the knee, looking completely at ease despite the tension practically rolling off our host.
Miller starts easy. “Tell us about the inspection. What was the Bluebell like when you were there?”
Rose’s eyes dart toward me briefly before settling on Miller. “Clean. Same as always.”
“You’ve inspected it before?” I ask, watching the way her jaw tightens.
“Couple times over the years,” she admits. “Never had an issue. The place has always been spotless.”
“So what changed?” Miller asks. “Because according to the revised report, you found mold, improper food storage, rodent droppings and a handful of other violations.”
Rose shifts uncomfortably. Crosses her ankles. Uncrosses them. “I don’t know what to tell you. If that’s what was in the report, then that’s what was in the report.”
Miller lets the silence stretch. She’s good at that, making people uncomfortable. I can see why she’s such a good lawyer.
I watch Rose’s knee bounce once before she presses her hand against it, stilling the movement.
“You filed a clean report, didn’t you?” Miller asks.
Rose doesn’t answer.
Miller leans forward slightly. “Ms. Weaver, the less information you give us now, the more this could come back to bite you in the ass later.”
Rose’s eyes flicking toward the window. “I filed the original report. I went in, did the inspection, and found nothing wrong.”
I exchange a glance with Miller.
“So when did that change?” I ask. “Did someone make you change it?”
Rose hesitates. “I got a call.”
Miller’s voice sharpens. “From who?”
Rose shakes her head. “Didn’t recognize the number. Just a woman telling me I needed to amend my report.”
A woman ? The hell?
“Did she threaten you?” I ask, scanning her face.
She shakes her head again. “No. Just said it would be in my best interest to file a new report, one that shut the Bluebell down.”
Miller exhales slowly. “And you just…did it?”
Rose’s expression hardens. “You don’t understand how this works, do you?” She glances between us. “I was so close to retirement. I had a pension. People like me don’t have the luxury of pissing off the wrong people.”
“You mean people like Wendell Tate,” I say, watching her closely.
Her eyes go cold. “I don’t know anything about Wendell Tate being involved.”
Miller tilts her head. “Did she pay you? This woman?”
Rose’s nostrils flare. “No.”
“But they threatened your job,” I say. “Your retirement.”
She exhales sharply. “Call it what you want.”
I run a hand over my jaw, my frustration mounting. “Who else knew about the original report? Who else had access to it before you changed it?”
Rose hesitates, then finally says, “The county clerk’s office would have the first copy before I filed the second one. But good luck finding it. Whoever wanted that first report gone probably trashed it.”
I nod, filing that away.