Ch. 10 | Citiots Welcome

Greg pulled up to the Jilinskis’ home, a pale-faced Jasmine riding shotgun.

I really need to ease up on the gas, he thought, glancing at her sideways.

David—the HOA vice president—was already there, standing by the front door with a spare key. He opened it for them and gestured for them to enter.

They stepped into a grand entryway. The open-concept floor plan gave a clean sightline straight to the kitchen. The decor was modern, expensive, and lifeless. White walls. Neutral tones. Carefully placed accents designed to say money, not personality.

To Jasmine, it didn’t look like two young girls had lived there.

They rounded a corner and found what was presumably the play area. Jasmine blinked. Beige everything. Even the toys were monochrome.

Oh no. Janice was a beige mom, she thought. She tried not to judge, but she knew better—understanding the victims’ world was often the key to understanding their deaths. Or their secrets. Or why a man might murder his family and then himself.

So far, the rooms looked untouched. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

They made their way upstairs, leaving David to lurk in the kitchen.

In the primary bedroom, there were signs of a quick exit—clothes strewn across the bed, suitcases half-opened on the floor.

They were in a hurry, Jasmine noted.

“Hey Jasmine,” Greg called from inside the closet. “The safe’s empty.”

She stepped into the walk-in closet—larger than her first apartment.

These people had clearly done well for themselves. Especially for an accountant and a stay-at-home wife.

“Check this out,” Greg said, lifting a box.

It was a gun case. Nine millimeter.

Jasmine’s heart skipped.

“Do we have ballistics back yet?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Detectives?” David’s voice called up from downstairs.

Greg rolled his eyes. “We need him to leave. He could be tampering with evidence.”

They headed down.

“I think I’ll head out,” David said, already at the door. “Just occurred to me I might be causing more harm than good.”

Jasmine nodded. “Thanks, David. We’ll be in touch.”

Once he was gone, she turned to Greg. “Let’s check the garage.”

“Lead the way.”

They moved down the hallway. Jasmine opened the garage door and reached for the switch.

She toggled it.

Nothing.

“That’s weird,” she said.

“Could be a pre-existing issue,” Greg offered.

“Even still, let’s note it.”

She found the opener and hit the button. The garage door groaned to life, rolling open. Sunlight streamed in. Aside from a few neatly stacked boxes, the garage was pristine.

No oil spills. No signs of daily use.

“Maybe they didn’t use it much,” Greg shrugged. “They were new here.”

“Sure,” Jasmine said. “But why doesn’t the switch work?”

She stared into the clean emptiness. Something didn’t sit right.

“Let’s call in some unis,” she said. “Get them to canvas the area. I want to talk to the neighbors. Figure out who the Jilinskis really were.”

Greg groaned. “Citiots.”

Jasmine gave him a look.

“I’ll take the houses on the left,” Greg said, already halfway to the door. “You take the right. Last one done buys lunch.”

She rolled her eyes.

He’d been on the job sixteen years longer than her—but lately, he’d been coasting. Detached. Maybe even checked out. Still, she respected him.

But she wouldn’t let his cynicism dull her edge.

Something was off about this place. The people in it. The stories they told—or didn’t. Connected or not, this wasn’t just another murder in a desert suburb.

And she was going to figure out why.

Citiots and all.