Your eyes return to It's another one of those late nights.

Lyra blinks as a coffee lands in between her blurry eyes and the computer monitor turning words to smeared mush. "Thought you could use a drink."

She glares as her older brother, Anthony, grins and settles back in his chair. She glances suspiciously at the cup as his smirk widens. "It's safe, I promise. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

"The list is uncountable," Lyra--because she's the only sibling their parents decided to give a quasi-fantasy name to--takes a small sip. It tastes normal. A little more reassured, she glances at Ant (look, if she got stuck with the weird names, she was going to start calling her siblings weird names too) for his reaction, who just shrugs.

"Told you I didn't do anything to it."

"I trust you about as far as I can throw you."

"Better build some muscle, O Sister Mine."

"I hate you."

"Love you too."

"I would very much like to punch you."

"Oohf," Ant tsks, wincing dramatically. He sucks in air through his teeth. He's enjoying this. "Threatening an officer... that isn't a great look, Ly. Especially in a police station."

"I will threaten you with my foot next, dummy."

"Really digging yourself into a hole, there."

"Detective Peyton! Detective Dalton!" You hear called. You and Ant straighten quickly. "Get back to work!"

"Yes, sir!" You both chorus. Ant rolls his chair back to his desk. You're welcome, he mouths. You, generously, refrain from responding.

Your eyes return to the screen, coffee helping the words be clearer. You scroll down as you read the financial statement for the vic--found murdered in the woods near the lake. Killer must've gotten spooked before he could dump her. Until one name jumps out at you. A check deposited in her account.

Robert Dalton.

Your husband.

You're suddenly grateful for the coffee.

Lyra stares at her laptop screen, bank statement staring back, bright, glaring, unblinking.

Robert Dalton — £4,800.00. Deposited three weeks ago.

Her husband’s name sits there, smug and immovable. Her pulse thuds in her ears. She scrolls up, then down, then back again, as if the name might vanish if she catches it off guard. It doesn’t.

A chair squeaks behind her. Ant’s voice floats over the cubicle wall. “Ly? You good?”

She swallows. Her throat feels lined with sandpaper. “Fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Drop it.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer, “Okay.”

She forces her eyes back to the screen. The victim: Marissa Hale, 29, freelance graphic designer, no priors, no known enemies, no reason to be dead in a clearing by the lake, had received a deposit from Robert. Her Robert. The man currently at home, probably reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically for the third time this week because 'you keep messing it up, Ly.'

Her stomach twists.

She clicks open the transaction details. There's no reason for the transaction given. Just the amount and the date. Her hands hover over the keyboard: she should flag this, she should tell Ant, tell her captain, do literally anything except sit here pretending her life hasn’t just tilted sideways--

Her phone buzzes on the desk.

ROBERT: Love you. Dinner tonight? I can pick up pasta.

Lyra stares at the message until the words blur.