Earl Grey & Murder, page 14
We stared at each other, the air between us charged like a storm threatening to break.
“I have to talk to him,” I said, quieter now, but no less certain. “You know I do.”
He shook his head once, like the answer had already been carved in stone. “You’re not doing this alone.”
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
But something between us had shifted—and we both felt it.
“Absolutely not,” I said, sharper than I intended. “He knows you’re a detective.”
Levi’s jaw tightened, eyes hardening like stone—flint striking against flint. I saw it in the way he stood, like he was bracing for something. Not from Julian. From me.
His voice came low and clipped, frustration bleeding into every word. “That’s exactly why I should be the one to talk to him.”
But I knew better. I knew that tone.
It was his armor.
Levi had a way of being cruel when he was trying to protect something—wrapped his worry in barbed wire, then dared you to get too close. And for some reason, that cruelty always found a way to twist in my stomach.
I drew in a steady breath, locking my expression down tight. I wasn’t going to flinch. Not this time. “You don’t get to decide who I trust, Levi,” I said quietly. “You just get to decide if you trust me.”
The silence that followed crackled.
His jaw flexed. His fingers drummed against the desk, controlled but restless. We stood there in a stare-off so charged; it felt like the oxygen had drained from the room.
“I’m not asking for permission,” I added again, my voice soft but firm. “This is delicate. We don't have any evidence one way or the other Margot is alive or what. If it seems like you're investigating something that might have happened, they might be tipped off and start getting rid of evidence."
More silence.
He didn’t look away, but something in his posture shifted—like the tension was caving in on itself, folding around something unsaid.
Finally, he muttered, “Julian Crane isn’t some harmless artist.”
I stepped closer. I didn’t mean to—but the words pushed me forward, steady and sharp. “And you know that how?”
His mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched like he was fighting with himself more than with me.
“That’s not what this is about.”
My heart was thudding now. Too loud. Too fast.
“No?” I asked, tilting my head, heat creeping up my neck. “Then what is it about, Levi? Really. Is it that I want to talk to him—or that you don’t want me anywhere near him?”
He said nothing.
I took another step. Not backing down.
“Are you scared something will happen?” I pressed. “Or are you scared I’ll find something?”
Still nothing.
But I saw it—in the way his fingers curled into fists, in the way his eyes searched mine like I’d hit something too close to where it hurt.
The room suddenly felt too small, like we were standing in a glass box with no air.
Whatever this was—this moment—it was more than Julian. More than the case.
It was about us.
About what I could find out about him.
And Levi wasn’t ready to say that. Not yet.
So I waited.
Just stood there and watched him battle whatever truth he wasn’t ready to name.
Because I wasn’t backing down. Not from him. Not from this.
I rolled my eyes, my patience wearing thin. “You know my family history,” I said, more bitterly than I meant to. “You really think I’m in any position to judge anyone?”
Levi didn’t flinch, but I saw it—the slight tightening in his jaw, the flicker of something beneath that carefully neutral stare. He was always trying to hold it all together. That stoic, cold-brew calm that made me want to throw something just to see if he’d react.
“And what are you doing?” he asked, voice low and cutting. “You have this incredibly annoying habit of digging into things that aren’t your business.”
That one landed harder than I expected.
I opened my mouth—ready to fire back—when the door creaked open behind us.
Chief Stone stepped in with the timing of someone who definitely overheard more than he should’ve. He glanced between us like he was sizing up a grenade mid-pin-pull.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked dryly.
I straightened, shoving down the heat crawling up my spine. “Not at all,” I said, aiming for a professional tone and landing somewhere between brittle and breezy. “Just discussing the Margot Drake case.”
"I didn't realize there was a case."
"There's not," Levi insisted.
Stone crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, the kind of casual that was anything but. “And what’s our theory?”
I jumped in before Levi could slam the brakes again. “There’s something off about it,” I said quickly. “She didn’t just disappear—there were signs. Behavior shifts. And Julian Crane might know why.”
Levi’s head snapped toward me. “No.”
Just that. Flat. Final. A wall I’d run into a dozen times before.
I held his gaze. Didn’t blink. “He was close to her. If she was spiraling, if something happened—he’d know. He might’ve seen it coming.”
Levi didn’t budge. “He’s manipulative. You’re not talking to him alone.”
Before I could argue again, Stone’s voice cut through the tension like a blade wrapped in silk.
“Last I checked,” he said mildly, “Levi doesn’t run this department.”
Levi’s jaw twitched. A tiny crack in that perfect composure.
I turned back to Stone, grateful and uneasy all at once. “So…?”
“She’s not a detective,” Levi said, crossing his arms like the statement was self-evident and offensive. “She’s not trained for this.”
I straightened my spine, squaring off without moving a step. “I’m not trying to be one,” I said coolly. “But someone needs to talk to Julian Crane. And that someone can’t walk in with a badge and a grudge.”
Levi’s glare didn’t budge, but Chief Stone’s gaze had shifted to me, sharp and unreadable. “What’s your plan then, Miss Hart?”
I hesitated for a heartbeat. “Charm,” I said finally, lifting my chin. “I was going to charm him.”
A beat of silence. Then—
“Really?” Stone raised a brow, and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or deeply entertained.
Levi scoffed like the very idea offended his senses. “Completely useless.”
“Try it,” Stone said.
I blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Try it,” he repeated, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “On Detective Kessler.”
My mouth fell open just slightly. “You want me to flirt with Levi?”
“Yes,” Stone said, folding his arms like this was the most reasonable request in the world. “I want to know if you can hold your own with someone who won’t go easy on you.”
Levi’s jaw locked so tightly I thought I could hear the muscle grind. His gaze didn’t move from mine, and the heat of it made my pulse jump.
“You’re serious?” I asked, voice a little breathier than I liked.
“I am,” Stone replied. “If you can’t get under his skin, you won’t stand a chance with someone like Julian Crane.”
I turned slowly toward Levi. He’d gone still—too still. His eyes narrowed, unreadable and sharp, and he looked like a man already regretting everything that led him to this moment.
“You think flirting will work on me?” he asked, voice low, calm, dangerous. The kind of calm that meant something was unraveling beneath the surface.
I felt something shift under my ribs. Something reckless.
“Why not find out?” I said, before I could stop myself.
And I took a step closer.
Just one.
The space between us narrowed to inches. His eyes darkened just slightly, like a storm cloud gathering at the edge of a field. I could feel the pull—the danger of proximity. Of saying the wrong thing, or maybe the right one.
He didn’t move.
Neither did I.
Somewhere behind us, Stone cleared his throat like a man watching a match spark above a powder keg.
But Levi and I?
We were already too close to pretend we didn’t feel it.
I held his gaze, and then—because I couldn’t help myself—I smiled.
Slow. Sweet. Just dangerous enough.
“If you were tea,” I said, my voice dipping just slightly, “you’d be a strong Earl Grey. Dark, brooding… and guaranteed to keep me up all night.”
Levi blinked.
Just once.
His jaw twitched like he’d just bitten into something too sharp, and his fingers curled ever so slightly around the edge of the desk.
Stone barked out a laugh behind me, the sound cracking through the charged air like someone had popped the tension with a spoon.
“A pick-up line inspired by… tea?” he wheezed, wiping his eyes. “Now that’s a new one.”
I turned toward him, pulse thudding behind my ribs like a drumroll. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” I said lightly, but my words carried something firmer beneath the sugar. “I can do this.”
Stone sobered just enough to study me with a bit more weight. “All right then, Miss Hart,” he said, nodding slowly. “But remember—we don’t have hard evidence. No crime scene. Nothing solid. If you’re walking in, it has to be clean. Careful.”
“Got it.” I lifted my chin. “Discretion is key.”
Beside me, Levi shifted, and the tension pouring off him rolled like heat off pavement. His eyes cut to Stone, then back to me, his entire body reading restrained detonation.
“This isn’t some game,” he muttered, his voice low and tight.
“Not a game,” I agreed, steady even as adrenaline prickled beneath my skin. “But sometimes a well-placed word opens more doors than a badge.”
His eyes flashed. “You’re seriously going to waltz into this and charm your way through it?”
“Levi,” I said, quiet but firm.
He didn’t look at me.
So I stepped just a little closer. Just enough that he had to.
“I’ve handled worse than charming a temperamental artist.”
He scoffed, but it was too quiet to land clean—more frustration than disdain. His body had gone still again, every muscle coiled like he was holding himself back from doing something—saying something—that would ruin us both.
“Don’t forget what’s at stake here,” he said, softer now. But that softness was edged like a blade.
“I won’t,” I promised. And I meant it.
But even as I turned to go, I felt the heat of his gaze burn between my shoulder blades.
Like he didn’t know if he wanted to follow me…
…or stop me.
Chapter
Twenty
I arrived at Steeped in Mysteary just after sunrise, when the light slanted low through the windows and made the air look like honey. The scent of the morning’s floral blend—lavender, rose, a whisper of orange blossom—wrapped around me like a shawl. I moved through the quiet, flipped the sign to OPEN, and settled into my favorite corner with a steaming cup and my journal already open.
There was something grounding about being here—surrounded by warm wood, old stories, and shelves that knew the weight of my mother’s hands. But my thoughts were far from calm.
Julian Crane.
Even writing his name felt strange, like invoking someone from a different world. A name whispered in gallery corners, a face always half-turned in photographs. Critics once called him magnetic. Others used words like manipulative. Brilliant. Dangerous. I didn’t know which side of that spectrum to believe—only that his name kept circling Margot’s, and that wasn’t a coincidence.
I pulled out my phone and started scrolling. Article after article painted the same picture: enigmatic, praised, elusive. There were carefully posed photos, vague nods to his genius, and enough puff pieces to pad a mattress. Not one of them said anything real.
He was slippery. The kind of person who crafted an image so carefully that people forgot to question what was underneath.
“Where are you hiding?” I murmured into my tea, the steam fogging the corner of my screen.
Then—there. Tucked into a local link almost too subtle to catch: Crane & Co. Gallery. The name sat bold against a minimalist white background, as if daring me to look closer.
I clicked.
Nestled just a few blocks from where I sat, the gallery had once hosted lavish openings and exclusive showings. Its pages were filled with dramatic lighting and oversized canvases. Julian’s name was everywhere—but the most recent post was dated months ago.
I sat back, cup in hand, and stared at the screen.
He wasn’t gone.
He was here. Quiet. Waiting.
My heartbeat picked up.
I reached for my pen again; the nib pressing into the paper with new intent.
Julian Crane had a door with his name on it.
And I planned to walk through it.
I was deep in my journal, scribbling wild arrows between Margot and Julian’s names, when the bell above the door chimed.
I didn’t even have to look up.
The air shifted the moment Levi stepped in—cool and sharp like the breeze before a thunderstorm. I glanced up anyway, and there he was: standing in the middle of Steeped in Mysteary like he didn’t belong, yet owned the room.
His gaze landed on me immediately.
“Great,” I muttered, just loud enough for my tea to hear.
He crossed the shop with the same coiled intensity he always carried, like he was holding back an argument and a confession at the same time.
“I completely disagree with what you’re planning,” he said, no preamble, no breath. “If Stone wants to tank his career over this circus, fine. But I’m not letting you walk into it blind.”
My brow furrowed. “What are you even talking about?”
He stopped just short of the counter. “You don’t get to waltz into Julian Crane’s gallery like it’s a charity tea tasting.”
I blinked, caught between confusion and irritation. “I’m not waltzing.”
He ignored me. “You need to understand what you’re getting into. Crane doesn’t like people digging into his past. He knows how to twist things. He’s not just charming—he’s practiced.”
My mouth opened, ready to fire back, but he lifted a hand in warning.
“If you’re looking for real answers—something that ties him to Margot—you can’t play this like one of your community fundraisers. You need to be careful.”
The room felt tighter suddenly, the shop too quiet. I set my pen down, heart ticking faster.
“So what, you’re telling me I’m not allowed to go?”
“I’m saying,” he said, arms crossing, jaw tight, “you need backup.”
He leaned against the counter, looking infuriatingly unbothered—but his eyes… his eyes were a different story. Wary. Worried. Just barely soft.
A pause.
“And by the way…” he added, with mock seriousness, “your tea was shit.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Undrinkable,” he said. A smirk ghosted at the corner of his mouth.
“I brewed it perfectly,” I snapped, but the corners of my lips betrayed me—curling up against my will.
He shrugged. “Perfectly bad.”
I huffed, rolling my eyes, but the tension broke like a cracked sugar crust. Just for a moment. Just enough to breathe.
I leaned forward across the counter, elbows planted, pulse settling. “So,” I said, watching him, “what now?”
Levi sighed like this entire conversation aged him a decade. “Look, if you’re going to do this, there are rules.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”
He nodded, sharp and precise. “You’re not there to provoke him. You’re not there to threaten, accuse, or—God forbid—imply anything you can’t prove.”
“Would I do that?” I asked innocently, hand to heart.
He gave me a look. The kind that said you literally would and you know it.
“You need to listen more than you speak,” he continued, ignoring my dramatics. “You’re there to observe. Body language. Gaps in what he says. Inconsistencies. If he mentions Margot, Naomi, or Henrik—get him to expand without pressing. And whatever he says, record it in your head. No phones. No notes.”
I nodded slowly, the weight of it all settling over me. This wasn’t a friendly visit—it was reconnaissance. And he was trusting me with that. Sort of.
“What can’t I use?” I asked, more serious now.
“Anything he says that sounds like opinion, vague metaphor, or emotional projection? Toss it. We need facts. Timelines. Specifics he doesn’t realize are specific.” He paused, then looked at me a little too directly. “And I’ll know if you’re trying too hard.”
I scoffed. “You don’t trust my charm?”
“What charm?” he asked flatly, like it physically pained him to say the words out loud.
I stared at him. Mouth open. Offended.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugged. “And yet here we are.”
I huffed out a breath. “Just for that, I’m turning it up to eleven.”
His jaw flexed. “Hart—”
“Nope. I’m going full enchantress. I’ll have him offering up his secrets like petals on a spring breeze.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” he muttered.
“I’ve been arrested before,” I said sweetly. "By you."
"My favorite arrest," he muttered.
I moved to the back of the shop, Levi a silent shadow behind me. The late afternoon light streamed through the tea shop windows, golden and soft, casting long streaks across the wooden floor. I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of my yellow sundress. It was light and breezy—unassuming—but there was a certain energy in it tonight. Confidence, maybe. Or armor pretending to be cotton.
