The Last Witness

The chapel’s front doors were still propped open when Maeve Calder stepped out of the drizzle and into Saint Brigid Hall, letting the last of the street noise die behind her. Inside, the air had that cold, reused-stone feel - cool enough to raise gooseflesh under her coat - and the soft click of someone’s heels on the flagstones kept time with the distant murmur of men trying not to sound panicked.

A private charity event had been underway. Now there was a murdered man on the floor near the front pews, and the room looked as if it was holding its breath around him. Maeve didn’t need to see the body again to know what she’d find: the angle of the cordon already set, the way two staff members stood too close together as if they could share courage, the way a candle that hadn’t been lit was still burning down in its glass holder. The hall had been curated for reverence; tonight it wore blood like a broken ornament.

“Detective Calder?” A man in a dark vest hurried toward her, his tie loosened, his hands held out like he could offer them up for inspection. “They said you’d - ”

“Who called it in?” Maeve asked, voice flat and practical, the words cutting through the room’s careful hush.

“Me,” he said too quickly. “I’m Simon Harrow, events coordinator. We found him during the program break. The doors were locked for the recording portion. Locked, Detective.”

Maeve’s gaze went past him to the pews where the staff had drawn a rough boundary with a length of red ribbon. Beyond it, a uniformed officer stood with his arms crossed, his radio crackling now and then like a bad habit. The victim lay where the ribbon couldn’t reach - close enough that the air seemed to cling to him.

She walked toward the cordon without waiting for permission, her shoes finding the worn grooves in the stone. The body had already been half-covered by a sheet that didn’t quite sit right, the edge lifting where a hand had stiffened beneath. The victim was a man in his forties, Dorian Wexley by the name on the badge clipped to the inside of the officer’s gloves. His face was turned slightly toward the aisle, as if he’d been interrupted mid-thought. Maeve noted the details that mattered before the rest of the room could distract her: one shoe scuffed at the toe, the cuff of his sleeve wet at the wrist though the hall wasn’t damp enough to justify it, the faint smear along the pew edge where fingers - or someone else’s - had gripped.

“Did anyone touch him?” she asked.

The officer looked relieved to have a question he could answer. “No. We secured immediately. We’ve got staff at the back and the - ” He glanced toward Harrow. “The rooms off the side are locked down per your request.”

Maeve’s request. Her hands were still empty, but she could feel the shape of her job in them. Secure the scene. Identify the first lead before evidence was disturbed. She’d said it on the phone to the dispatcher, and now she had to make it real with people who didn’t understand why a sheet over a body could matter more than their fear.

A woman stood just outside the ribbon, her posture too rigid to be natural. She wore a cream blazer and a lanyard that read LUCINDA - last name smudged by sweat. Her eyes flicked between Maeve’s face and the body, as if she couldn’t decide whether to beg or accuse.

“He was supposed to meet someone,” Lucinda said before Maeve could ask. Her voice had the thinness of rehearsed sincerity. “Mr. Wexley. He was scheduled. It was part of the - of the program.”

Harrow gave her a look that begged for silence. Lucinda swallowed and tried again. “There was a last witness segment. The last witness was coming in for a recording. Dorian was told to sit in the front seat, second pew from the right, and wait.”

“Who told him?” Maeve asked.

Lucinda’s eyes darted to Harrow, then back. “I - Dorian’s assistant confirmed it with our contact. We were told it was already arranged.”

“Your contact’s name,” Maeve said.

Lucinda hesitated, and in that pause Maeve heard the second kind of trouble: not just the murder, but the story people were trying to keep consistent. “It was… it was in the event packet. I can pull it.”

“Not now.” Maeve stepped closer to the pew where Dorian had been sitting. The ribbon boundary stopped a few inches short of her reach, but she could still see the seat cushion under the sheet’s shadow. A faint indentation remained in the fabric, like a handprint pressed into velvet.

The officer raised a hand to stop her. “Ma’am, you’re - ”

Maeve looked at him until he lowered his hand. “I’m not touching. I’m looking.” She leaned slightly, careful not to brush the pew edge with her sleeve. Dust motes drifted in the weak light, and she could hear the building’s old ventilation system wheeze as if it resented being woken.

At her feet, beside the leg of the chair, something small caught the glint of overhead bulbs: a slim rectangle of matte black, half embedded in the carpet’s pile. Not a device meant for display....