CHAPTER 3 MOST LIKELY TO BE SECRETLY GUILTY
MOST LIKELY TO BE SECRETLY GUILTY
REESE
When I pull into the driveway in front of the one-car garage of Miles’s rowhouse, I’m wearing black joggers, a black oversized sweatshirt, and my black cat-eye glasses.
I would look like I am about to slip into the shadows to do something nefarious if it weren’t for my bright yellow fuzzy socks and the fact that my sweatshirt says Suspicious Until Proven Otherwise in bold white text.
With the bag that’s holding the pita chips and dip on my shoulder, I head up past the side of his garage to his front door and knock. A moment later, I get a text.
Miles: Is that you? I got home late and needed a quick shower. I just got out, so I’ll be down in a minute. I already unlocked the door for you. Come on in.
I open the door and close it normally, not trying to be sneaky or anything, and quickly type a text back.
Reese: I’m still about 5 minutes away.
Miles: Then there’s someone in my house. When you arrive, stay in your car until I come get you.
I am really trying hard to not giggle out loud as I set my bag down in Miles’s living area and stand facing the stairs that lead up to the two bedrooms. It’s the kind of staircase that goes up six steps, turns, has a couple more, then turns back in the direction it started for the remaining stairs.
It only takes a second before Miles, silent as can be, sneaks down and turns that corner.
His entire body is tense, wary, and on high alert, and he’s got what I’m pretty sure is a small but heavy-duty flashlight in his hand.
I only get a glimpse of it, though, because the second he spots me, his posture relaxes, and the object disappears into the pocket of the navy joggers he’s wearing.
I can tell that he just stepped out of the shower because he hasn’t even finished getting dressed yet— he’s wearing only the joggers, and he has droplets of water on the ends of his hair and all over his very bare chest.
“Got you!” I say.
“You know, pretending to be an intruder is dangerous.” His eyes flick to my Suspicious Until Proven Otherwise sweatshirt.
“I know.” I nod in the direction of his pocket. “I came this close to being blinded by a high-powered light. That was impressively fast home defense, by the way. Is it because you grew up doing safety drills with Charlie so she’d feel prepared?”
His arms, which also have water droplets on them, are crossed over his chest now. “Something like that.”
“Well, consider this me helping to make sure your skills don’t atrophy. Now go. Put a shirt on. We’ve got a murder to solve and snacks to eat.”
Miles turns and heads back up the stairs. Whew. It’s a good thing the man doesn’t go around shirtless often. It’s not something that a girl who is determined to keep things in the friend zone needs to see. I am here for fictional murder—not a surprise attack on my commitment to never ogle.
But now, I’m suddenly wondering if Miles brings dates back here.
I look around the space, trying to picture it through a date’s eyes.
It doesn’t really have a “bachelor pad” vibe.
It mostly has a Miles vibe. Warm lighting, a very nice, insanely comfortable couch, a basket of throw blankets.
He’s got a bookshelf with spy thrillers, biographies, psychology and people-reading books, a few in other languages, and even a few I recommended.
Throughout the space, he has framed pictures on the walls and on shelves.
Some are of his family, some travel photos from work trips, and I count…
seven of me with him. Mostly selfies from random places we’ve gone.
In fact, several of the items in this room are things I’ve given him over the years.
Like the resin Sherlock Holmes figurine holding a real magnifying glass that’s taller than him, a decorative block that says, Trust Me, I’m in Client Relations, and a brass bee paperweight.
And my favorite: a trophy. We’d been doing exactly what we’re about to do tonight—watching a murder mystery and guessing who the murderer might be.
Last year, for about the fifth time in a row, he’d guessed the murderer first. And not far into the show, either.
I had wanted to know what his secret was and even asked him if he’d seen the episode before.
He’d just said it was pure skill. I’d replied that no innocent person was that good at spotting guilt.
A couple of days later, I found a bowling trophy in a thrift store, bought it, shined it up, and replaced the Amateur League Champion 1998 plate with one that read Most Likely to Be Secretly Guilty.
When I gave it to him, he’d laughed hard, said he’d always keep it in a place of honor, and put it front and center on this shelf.
It’s one thing to give someone ridiculous objects. It’s another thing entirely for them to keep displaying the ridiculous objects where actual people they know might see them.
Nothing in here says “showing off for a date.” Plus, when Miles goes on dates, it’s never more than once with the same person. So, he probably doesn’t bring them here.
I’m just opening my honey dip container and placing it on the coffee table next to the pita chips when Miles comes back downstairs. He’s wearing the same navy joggers, but now with a matching hoodie, and his hair is combed with its usual perfection.
And… he’s wearing a mustache. It’s a big chevron one, too, and a delighted laugh bursts out of me. “What is on your face?”
Keeping a completely straight expression, he says, “You’re dressed like we might be doing crime later, so I thought I should have a disguise.” He heads into the kitchen and gets a pot from his cupboard, natural as could be, like he’s ready to spend the night like this.
It’s just one of the reasons why Miles is so fun to be around. He never hesitates to match my vibe.
He opens the fridge to get out the pitcher of apple cider, but his hand pauses. “You know, we could have beet juice instead. It’s fresh and delicious. Not to mention chock-full of antioxidants, fiber, vitamins, and a plethora of health benefits.”
I eye the juice suspiciously. “Have you ever heard the phrase ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is’? Thank you for the offer, but no—I came for the cider.”
“Okay, but you’re missing out,” Miles says as he gets out the cider and pours some into the pot on the stove. “Is Charlie going to join us tonight? Or is she home making a chain counting down the days until Owen is back again?”
I put my hands on my hips and stare Miles down for a moment.
“It’s The Village Detective night, which means we will be making murder predictions with the seriousness and precision of detectives and forensic professionals, so our powers of observation must be sharp and our theories defensible.
Yet, you wasted your guess on what Charlie is doing on ‘making a countdown chain,’ when you know Owen has been back in Philadelphia for a week already? ”
I shake my head. “It’s like you don’t know your sister at all.
That chain was made five minutes after he left, and she’s ceremoniously torn a link off daily.
She’s back at our place, video chatting Owen with her phone propped across from a dessert like they’re sharing it long-distance, which is disgustingly adorable. ”
“Fair enough. Oh, and speaking of people who are disgustingly adorable, my grandma and grandpa are coming to visit next week.”
“Arthur and Elizabeth?” I brighten. “I love them! The last time they visited, Arthur listened to me tell an entire story about a student who hated reading until I found him the perfect book. The whole story. I even included the three failed book attempts and a dramatic reenactment of his reaction to the fourth.”
“Grandpa probably remembers the title.”
“He asked me to write it down for him.”
“That sounds right.” Miles smiles. “Grandma says he collects people’s stories because he’s afraid something important will happen and no one will remember it. Of course, she says this while keeping a written record of every embarrassing thing any Lancaster has done since birth.”
“That’s because your family understands the importance of preserving history.”
“No, my family understands the importance of having leverage.” He winks.
Then he draws in a slow breath, shakes out both arms, and rolls his neck once.
“You’re right. I came in overconfident and underprepared with the Charlie guess.
It won’t happen again. Tonight, I will honor the gravity of The Village Detective by suspecting everyone, trusting no alibi, and noticing every clue. ”
“You can blame the overconfidence on the mustache. And beware, because it might strike you with overconfidence again before the night is over.”
Once we both have mugs of warm apple cider, we sit on Miles’s couch, and I bring up the latest episode of our current favorite murder mystery.
The Village Detective is as if Murder, She Wrote and Psych had a cozy little lake-town baby, then gave it a retired true-crime podcaster, as many seasonal festivals as Stars Hollow on The Gilmore Girls, and a local sheriff who keeps insisting that their town’s murder rate is just a charming quirk.
It might sound campy, but… okay, it totally is. And I love it.
The episode opens to a late evening scene showing the town of Havenridge’s annual Harbor Lights Festival, with strings of lights reflecting off the lake, a crowded boardwalk, a brass band playing near the marina, and kids running around with glow sticks.
Roxie Wallace, the show’s heroine, narrates in true crime podcast-style something about how every year, the town gathers to celebrate safe passage home—which, given Havenridge’s murder rate, feels a bit like tempting fate.
Then the camera follows a local councilman as he ends a tense conversation with an unknown man and says, “I’m going to check the lighthouse before the fireworks,” and walks down a path alone.