Chapter 15

Cara stepped further into the Walters home and scanned the space.

It was clean. Impeccably styled. Minimalist without being cold. Every piece of furniture looked like it had been selected for a magazine spread—low-profile leather, matte fixtures, a subtle palette of charcoal, camel, and cream. But it was also unmistakably hollow. The kind of place that photographed well but lived poorly.

No books. No clutter. No pulse.

Cara didn’t linger on the decor. She’d seen that kind of emptiness before—tasteful veneers masking silent implosions. Still, she made a mental note. It might mean nothing. But then again, plenty of crime scenes started out looking curated.

Her heels clicked softly against the hardwood, taking care not to trip over the floor vent, as she moved toward the open living room, eyes sweeping the edges while Max moved soundlessly beside her.

She thought briefly of Detective Butler. He’d been polite enough to her. Civil, even. But the way he spoke to Max—like she didn’t belong, like her presence needed justifying—left a bitter taste. Cara wasn’t surprised, just… sharpened. It made her wonder what Savannah’s experience with him had been. What she’d endured during processing. What wasn’t in the intake notes.

Detective Coudry, on the other hand, seemed helpful. Maybe a little too helpful, though Cara smirked to herself. That likely had less to do with the case and everything to do with Max Carlisle’s reputation at CloudView precinct.

Max didn’t chase recognition. She moved in silence—but it echoed in the rooms of power: with politicians, the city elite, and most crucially, law enforcement. She was someone you wanted in your corner. And someone you definitely dreaded as an enemy.

Cara was grateful she had the former.

She turned slightly and watched her partner work. Max was in her zone—camera out, fingers moving with quiet precision, capturing everything from bloodless corners to the subtle depressions in couch cushions. She worked like she was cataloguing memory, not evidence.

“Thoughts?” Cara asked.

Max didn’t look up. “Nothing yet,” she replied, snapping another photo of the hallway trim.

Cara nodded, checked her watch. “I’ll get to work on securing the psych evaluation. Maybe swing by the DA’s office, sit with Jamison for a spell.”

She let the words hang, just long enough.

Max didn’t pause, but a slight smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“I’ll let you handle that.”

It was an old jab. Max and Jamison had dinner once—just once—and it was never spoken of again. But every time Assistant District Attorney Jamison was within ten feet of Max, he looked like a teenage boy who’d farted in front of his crush and never recovered.

Cara grinned. Score one.

She tilted her head. “Is it worth unpacking Butler’s deal?”

Max finally paused, lowered the camera slightly. “Nothing to unpack,” she said. “Familiar territory.”

Cara didn’t argue. She just watched Max reset her lens and fell into step behind her—quiet, present, and out of the way.

Twenty minutes passed in that rhythm.

Then Max clicked the camera off and straightened. “I’ve got what I need for now,” she said, tucking it away. “Let’s just hope you didn’t rope us into a Primal Fear case.”

Cara didn’t miss a beat. “You make a divine Andre Braugher.”

Max laughed. “Back at you, Richard Gere.”

They walked out without another word.