Theory of the Crime

By Kerry Share

Darwin Davis has it made. Moving to a new town and starting a new job as a private investigator didn’t sound like such a good idea at first, but, with a few successful cases under his belt already, he’s starting feeling pretty good about the change. So, when a beautiful woman offers him three times his normal fee in exchange for reviewing the evidence in her sister’s half-decade old murder case, it doesn’t occur to him that the job just might be too good to be true.

Cassandra Thompson was just twenty years old when her sister Layla was murdered, and though she was a key witness to the crime, seven years on the perpetrator still hasn’t been caught. Struggling since Layla’s death with her mental health, Cass is now determined to get her life together… by finding the man responsible for her beloved sister’s murder. But after wearing out her welcome with the local police force, she must turn to more… unorthodox methods to uncover the truth.

Relying on the police’s at times shoddy detective work and Cass’s near perfect memory of the night of the crime, Darwin soon realizes that the case is more than he bargained for, but he can’t help but feel drawn in by Cass’s passionate determination to finally put her sister’s spirit to rest. As the two spend more time together, Darwin starts to think of the case – and Cass – as more than just another job.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094435145

Kerry Share

N/A

Book preview

Chapter One

Darwin Davis was not the kind of man who often doubted himself — but today, it seemed, would be one of those days.

The house to which he had been invited, the home in front of which he was now standing, was an enormous, sprawling estate that boasted three floors, a six car garage, and even a detached guest house at the back of the property. It was the kind of place poor kids imagined princes and princesses lived, the kind of place poor adults worked as housemaids or gardeners. It was the sort of home that, when immaculately kept, exuded a kind of otherworldly perfection that outsiders could only dream of.

The trouble was that this house was not immaculately kept, and it was that fact more than anything that gave Darwin a chilly sense of foreboding.

That, in and of itself, was what was so unusual. Darwin generally considered himself pretty tough. Difficult to rattle. He had to be. Growing up Black in a predominantly white neighborhood that had not quite shaken off its racist history meant he developed remarkably thick skin from a rather tender age. If that weren’t enough, he’d chosen a career as a private investigator — meaning he was adjacent to law enforcement and all the danger it entailed, yet far enough apart that he did not enjoy its formal protections. Suffice it to say, he was no stranger to hazardous situations. So what was it about the building before him that made the hairs on his arm stand up?

Perhaps it was the peeling paint, the shutters that were nailed close over the windows, or the ivy starting to creep up the walls; or it was perhaps that such a ramshackle appearance was incongruous with the house’s environs — situated between two equally large, yet vastly better cared for, properties on a street lined with similar homes. Or maybe it was the gray, dreary weather the small New England village of Little Mill had been enjoying of late; the kind that dampened one’s energy and mood.

Or, most likely, it was all of it taken together, a combination creepy enough to send a shiver down the spine of even the most hardened investigator.

But Darwin had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let an eerie house stop him from doing that.

Darwin strode purposefully up the long, winding walkway until he reached the front steps. There he paused and ran a hand down his front, smoothing his suit jacket which had become slightly rumpled during the drive. He’d found, during his short time as an investigator, his appearance was almost as important to his clients as his competence. More than once, he had stuck out his hand to introduce himself, only to be left waiting while his wealthy white patron openly sized him up, a lip curling in obvious disdain. If he hadn’t been so desperate to prove himself back then, he might have refused to work with that sort of person. Alas… he had been that desperate.

Satisfied that he looked as professional as possible, Darwin flipped open the file in his hands and ran over the particulars of the case again: his client was one Cassandra Thompson, the twenty-five year old heiress to the Thompson family fortune after her estranged parents were killed in a boating accident the previous year. The Thompsons were old money, having inherited the bulk of their wealth and making the rest through real estate and other investments. They were a well liked family in their community, and well pitied.

The elder Thompson couple’s deaths had been decried as a great tragedy — and a salacious mystery. It was no secret that the younger Thompson daughter, Cassandra, had been at odds with her parents since she was a troublesome teenager, and many in Little Mill openly gossiped that she was somehow responsible for their demise.

It was nonsense, of course. While it was true that, as the only surviving heir, Cassandra stood to inherit the entirety of the family fortune upon the deaths of her parents, it was well known that the woman did not share her family’s extravagant tastes. Though she had access to a substantial trust fund, she hadn’t touched it since leaving college, preferring instead to live modestly. Beyond that, she hadn’t seen or spoken to her parents in years. And with no suspicious cash withdrawals to pay a hitman to cleverly disguise the deaths as an accident, Cass Thompson was cleared long ago as a suspect.

The rumors persisted, of course, but Darwin put them from his mind. That was not why he was here, anyway.

Darwin drew his forefinger down the length of the top page in the file — the contract he and Miss Thompson had drawn up together for his investigative services. It was one of the most unusual agreements in his short career: she had offered three times his usual rate of pay before Darwin had even broached the subject, but insisted that he stay in her guest house while working the case. That raised his eyebrows more than the money, but Miss Thompson claimed that Little Mill was too far out from the next town and boasted too few amenities of its own to give Darwin anywhere else to stay. A cursory internet search told him she was right, and he, though reluctantly, agreed to her terms. He could deal with a little weirdness if it meant landing his biggest paycheck to date.

Snapping the file closed once more, Darwin leaned on the doorbell and waited.

It was a long time before anyone answered. Long enough that he considered peeking in through one of the large windows that flanked him, though he resisted the urge. All it would take was one nosy neighbor peering out of their own window and he’d be spending the afternoon at a police station accused of attempted robbery or peeping.

Instead, he dug in his coat pocket for his phone and thumbed through his messages with Cassandra Thompson, confirming for himself that he had not mistaken the details of their meeting. Date, time, and location were all correct — even the number splashed artistically on the front of the house matched what he had typed into his GPS, disabusing him of the idea that he had simply gotten the address wrong. Still, all was quiet.

Darwin pressed his finger against the doorbell a second time, trying to decide if he should be annoyed or concerned. After all, bad luck seemed to follow this family like a lost puppy, and if his research into Miss Thompson had been accurate, she was not in the best of mental health. Was his client somewhere within the voluminous walls, sick or suffering an injury of some kind, unable to come to the door or call for help? It was an ugly thought; uglier still was the idea that she had forgotten the meeting entirely, or was even avoiding him on purpose.

Incensed, he was at the point of walking back to his car when he was forestalled by the unmistakable sound of a deadbolt being slid back. A thrill of anxiety and relief surged through him, and he squared his shoulder as he waited for his client to, at last, reveal herself.

It took an unusually long, ponderous moment for the door to open but, eventually, open it did — just a crack through which Darwin could see a shadowed face before widening to admit him full view of the woman beyond.

He knew it was inappropriate, but the first thing that struck Darwin about Cassandra Thompson was her beauty. He did not expect it, considering the rumors, but undeniably beautiful she was. Long, dark hair fell in waves and ripples past her shoulders, framing a lovely, heart-shaped face which required no makeup to accentuate her natural features. A smattering of freckles dusted her high, delicate cheekbones and nose — a feature Darwin had always found attractive. Her almond-shaped eyes were a stormy gray-green, and she had long, pretty eyelashes that fluttered up and down as she assessed her guest, much as he was assessing her.

It was that thought that finally snapped Darwin from his rather rude reverie, and he stuck out his hand for her to shake.

Cassandra Thompson? he said, deepening his voice just a shade as he always did in professional settings.

Miss Thompson hesitated just long enough for Darwin to notice before taking his hand. You must be Darwin Davis, she said, her tone laced with a confidence that Darwin knew at once to be false. Pleased to meet you. Come in. She stood back to admit him entry into the foyer.

Indoors, it was surprisingly dark. From the weak sunlight shining through the front door before Miss Thompson closed it once more, Darwin could see heavy drapes closed over each of the windows and furniture pushed up against the walls. Then all was blackness.

Something wrong with the electrical? Darwin asked wryly, though inside that discomfited feeling that had gripped him on the doorstep was rearing its head.

Oh, right, Miss Thompson said, sounding both surprised and embarrassed.

Darwin could just see the faint outline of an arm groping toward the wall. A moment later a light came on overhead.

Sorry, she muttered, her gaze averted. I’m still working on cleaning this place up.

Now that the lights were on, Darwin could see dark bags under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in days. Her clothes, too, though clean and expensive, looked rumpled. Darwin thought he might have roused her from a much needed nap, and he felt a sudden pang of sympathy

That’s a big job for just one person, Darwin observed politely, tearing his eyes away from her to look more closely at his surroundings.

The foyer was high ceilinged but surprisingly small, as it bisected a large parlor that had the look as if it had once been quite a fine entertaining area. Now, however, with the art leaning in stacks against the walls rather than hanging upon them and the furniture shoved unceremoniously into corners and covered in drop cloths, it looked just as gloomy as the exterior of the house.

I’m back here, Miss Thompson was saying presently, gesturing for Darwin to follow her down the hall. "Don’t mind the mess. No one