Chapter 22 #2
The Ten Park substation is small and institutional. Fluorescent lights, beige walls, the smell of stale coffee, sweat and paperwork.
Detective Lily Chen is waiting in an interview room.
She's younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, sharp eyes, professional demeanor. The kind of person who notices everything and forgets nothing.
"Mrs. Brennan. Thank you for coming."
"Of course. Happy to help."
She gestures to a chair and I sit, setting my bag on the floor. The room is small, just a table and two chairs. A recording device sits on the table between us.
"I'm going to record this interview, if that's alright with you."
"That's fine."
She presses record and states the date, time, and participants for the record.
Then she looks at me.
"Mrs. Brennan, can you tell me where you were approximately eight months ago? Specifically, the month of –" she checks her notes "– March."
"I was living in Portland, Oregon. Working as a freelance photographer."
"And your husband?"
"He was doing carpentry work. We'd been in Portland for about three years at that point."
"When did you move to San Diego?"
"Around five months ago. We wanted better weather and I was hoping to break into the art photography scene here."
"Can you provide documentation of your residence in Portland during that time?"
"Yes. I have tax returns, rental agreements, client invoices. I can email them to you."
She makes a note. "That would be helpful. Do you know a man named Gary Hollis?"
"No."
"Have you ever been to Flagston, Arizona?"
"No. I've never been to Arizona at all."
"What about your husband?"
"Not that I'm aware of. We've mostly stayed on the West Coast."
She's watching me carefully, looking for tells. Micro-expressions, any signs of deception.
I meet her eyes steadily, because technically I'm not lying.
Roxy Brennan has never been to Arizona.
Roxy Brennan doesn't know Gary Hollis.
Roxy Brennan is exactly who she says she is.
"You mentioned you're a freelance photographer," Chen says, shifting topics. "What kind of work do you do currently?"
"Various subjects. Landscapes, urban derelict sites, some portrait work."
"How do you make money from that?"
"I sell prints online. Some commission work. I'm building a portfolio for gallery submissions."
"What subjects interest you most?"
I hesitate, knowing this is dangerous territory. But lying would be worse.
"Dark subject matter, mostly. Abandoned places. Crime scenes after the event, not active investigations, just the aftermath. Places where death happened."
Her pen pauses on the notepad. "Crime scenes?"
"Yes. I find them... artistically compelling. The truth of what violence leaves behind."
"How do you find these locations?"
"Police scanners sometimes. News reports. Sometimes I just drive until I find something that speaks to me."
She's watching me more intently now. I can feel the shift in the room, the way her focus has sharpened.
"That's an unusual specialty," she says carefully.
"I suppose it is."
"Do you share this work anywhere? Online forums, social media?"
My pulse kicks up. "Sometimes. Photography communities."
She flips through her notes, and I watch her fingers move across the page with growing dread.
"There's an artist who posts on photography forums," she says, her voice casual but her eyes locked on mine. "Goes by R.B. They share crime scene photography. Has a following online. Ever heard of them?"
The air leaves my lungs, she fucking knows, not everything, but she's connecting dots. The initials. The subject matter and the obsession with death.
I keep my expression neutral. "No. I don't think so."
"You've never come across that name in art circles?"
"There are a lot of artists online. I don't know everyone."
"R. Brennan," she repeats, watching my face. "Same initials as you and the same interest in crime scenes. Quite a coincidence."
"I guess it is."
"You're sure you don't know this artist?"
"I'm sure."
She makes another note, and the silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut.
"And you've never been to Arizona?" she asks again.
"No."
"Never photographed any crime scenes there?"
"No."
The questions continue for another twenty minutes. Timeline, alibi, work history, travel patterns. She's thorough, methodical, looking for inconsistencies.
But there aren't any, because the story is true. James and Roxy Brennan are real people with real lives.
Finally, she sits back.
"One more question. Do you know why witness descriptions from the Gary Hollis investigation match you and your husband?"
My heart skips, but I manage to keep my expression neutral and breathing calm.
"I don't know. Coincidence? There are a lot of tall men with dark hair and petite women with long dark hair in the world."
"True." She pauses. "But the descriptions were quite specific. And the timeline places these individuals in the same area where Mr. Hollis was last seen."
"I understand that must be frustrating for your investigation. But I can assure you, we weren't in Arizona. We were in Portland. I can provide evidence to prove it."
She studies me for a long moment, and then she turns off the recorder.
"Off the record, Mrs. Brennan." Her voice is quiet, measured.
"My instinct says something's off here. The descriptions match.
The initials match. Your interest in crime scene photography is.
.. concerning. And this online artist, RB, they post work from all over the country.
The same subjects you just described to me. "
I meet her eyes. "I'm not the only photographer interested in dark subject matter."
"No, but you're the only one sitting in front of me right now who matches witness descriptions from a homicide investigation."
"I can't help what I look like, Detective. And I can't help that someone else shares my initials and my artistic interests. But I wasn't in Arizona. I didn't know Gary Hollis, and I'm not whoever you're looking for."
She stands, extending her hand. "Thank you for your cooperation. I'll be in touch if I have any follow-up questions."
I shake her hand, my grip firm and steady. "Of course. We want to help however we can."
I leave the substation and walk to my car on legs that feel like water. Once I'm inside with the doors locked, I let myself shake. How the fuck does she know about the forums? Fucking gossips on socials.
She's connecting RB the online artist to Roxy Brennan the person.
She suspects something, and not just about Gary Hollis, but about who I am and what I do.
But she can't prove it, and without proof, there's nothing she can do.
Dom's waiting when I get home.
He pulls me into his arms the moment I walk through the door, holding me so tight I can barely breathe.
"How'd it go?" he asks against my hair.
"She knows something's wrong, but she can't prove it."
"What'd you tell her?"
"The truth. That we're James and Roxy Brennan. That we were in Portland around the time of the murder and that we've never been to Arizona."
"And she believed you?"
"She didn't have a choice. The documentation backs it up and the story is consistent. There's no physical evidence connecting us to Gary Hollis."
He pulls back to look at me. "So we're clear?"
"For now. She said she'd be in touch if she has follow-up questions."
"Meaning she's not done."
"Meaning she's going to keep digging, but there's nothing to find. The people she's looking for don't exist anymore."
We stand there in the fading light, holding each other, processing what just happened. We were tested and the cover held.
"We should still be careful," Dom says. "Keep our heads down. No unnecessary risks."
"Agreed. But we're not running."
"No?"
"No. Because running would prove her right. Staying proves we're innocent."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I can taste the relief mixed with fear and adrenaline.
"Tokyo's still happening?" he asks.
"Tokyo's still happening. The gallery confirmed last week. Three months from now."
"And if Chen comes back?"
"Then we deal with it. But I don't think she will.
She's hit a wall. Even if she suspects us, she can't prove anything. And without proof, the case stays cold. All that provoking me was to get something she could work with, which means she doesn’t have enough to bring us in. But believe me, she knows it was us."
“Maybe I should end her life too,” he says into my hair and I giggle.
“If only that would help. We got this, baby. I love you,” I say as Dom holds me tighter before taking my breath away with a kiss full of love and devotion.
We make love on the couch, celebrating survival, reminding ourselves it was all worth it. His hands are everywhere, claiming and reassuring, and I arch into him with a gasp.
"We made it," I pant against his mouth.
"Yeah."
"The cover held."
"We're safe."
He drives into me harder, his grip tightening on my throat. "We're safe."
Afterward, we lie tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal.
"She tried to find the artist," I say quietly. "Detective Chen. She must have contacted Sarah Vance at the gallery."
"And?"
"And Vance told her the same thing she tells everyone. That RB prefers privacy. That they only have an email address. No phone number, no physical address, and no way to contact the artist directly."
Dom's quiet for a moment.
"So even if Chen wanted to interview the artist…"
"She can't, because the artist doesn't exist in any traceable way. I’m glad I decided to stay hidden, otherwise our situation would be a lot worse."
"I don’t even want to think about it."
"Anyway, it’s done, and Chen can't investigate someone who doesn't officially exist."
"No. She can't."
We're quiet for a long time, letting the reality settle over us, because the solution isn't escape. It’s lying within the bounds of truth.
"Three months until Tokyo," Dom says.
"Yep."
"And then what?"
"Maybe buy a house on the coast."
"Now that sounds like a great idea."
I kiss him, tasting certainty and freedom and the future we're creating.
Detective Lily Chen can suspect all she wants, but she'll never prove anything.
Because the people she's looking for are dead.
And in their place are James and Roxy Brennan.
Artists. Travelers. Ghosts hiding in plain sight.