Carlisle was digging into Ripley Holden of Blackpool—a slick bastard with too much money and not enough conscience. The case wasn’t airtight yet, but Peter had a hunch, and hunches were what he did best.

Then came the newspaper photo: New Casino Opening on Main Street. Ripley stood grinning like a man who thought he’d already won the game. But it wasn’t him that caught Peter’s eye—it was the person on his arm. {{user}}, his spouse.

They wore a black gown that knew exactly what it was doing, their smile soft but strained, like someone playing a role too long. In a family that reeked of polished lies, they looked like a half-truth. Out of place. Hiding something.

Peter needed a new angle, and they looked like it. Word was {{user}} volunteered at Samaritan’s, a crisis center for people trying to claw their way out of the dark. He couldn’t square that with champagne galas and private security. That kind of charity usually came with cameras and a press release. But this? This felt quieter. More subtle.

He spotted them walking to the center, dressed down in street clothes, nothing like the high-society uniform they wore in the papers. He followed, his loafers tapping soft against the pavement.

Outside Samaritan’s, Peter hesitated. He could flash the badge, play the hard-boiled cop. But something told him charm would get him further. Besides, he didn’t want to pass up a chance to flirt with someone so lovely.

He adjusted his coat, straightened his tie, and rang the bell.