Undercover Blonde

The dead woman on the TV screen had been beautiful once. Now her blonde hair was matted with dried blood, her blue eyes vacant as the medical examiner cataloged the violence that had ended her. Evelyn Sinclair leaned forward on the couch, watching with an intensity that would disturb most people. The clock read 6:17 AM. The rest of the condo sat in pre-dawn darkness, the only illumination coming from the television's cool glow that painted Evie's striking features in a ghostly light.

"The victim shows evidence of defensive wounds on her forearms," the medical examiner on the screen explained, "indicating she fought her attacker before succumbing to multiple stab wounds to the neck and torso."

Evie's ice-blue eyes narrowed, mentally cataloging details others might miss: the angle of the wounds, the spray pattern of blood on nearby surfaces, the timeline reconstructed through lividity and body temperature. She wasn't watching with morbid fascination but with analytical curiosity, her mind arranging and rearranging puzzle pieces as naturally as others might hum along to a favorite song.

Behind her, the bedroom door opened with a soft creak. Joseph Sinclair emerged, his athletic frame silhouetted in the doorway, hair tussled from sleep. He squinted against the television's glow, concern etched across his features as he spotted his wife curled on the couch instead of beside him in bed.

"Jesus, Evie," he muttered. "The stabby shows again?"

She didn't turn, eyes still fixed on the screen. "The husband did it. They're acting like it's a mystery, but he has a fresh cut on his right hand he keeps hiding from the camera. Plus, the blood spatter on the kitchen ceiling means the killer was taller than her. He's claiming it was an intruder, but the dog didn't bark, and they mentioned earlier it goes crazy whenever strangers approach the house."

Joe shuffled to the kitchen, flicking on the light above the sink. The sudden illumination made Evie blink, momentarily breaking her connection to the murdered blonde. "Did you sleep at all?" he asked, filling the coffee maker with water.

"Couple hours," she answered, though they both knew it was probably less. Insomnia had been her companion recently. The white noise of true crime documentaries had become her lullaby, though they rarely delivered on their promise of sleep.

Joe measured coffee grounds. "You've got to be exhausted. Your shift starts at noon, right?"

"Mmm," she hummed noncommittally, still tracking the detectives' investigation of the crime scene.

The coffee maker gurgled to life. Joe leaned against the counter, watching his wife instead of the television. At twenty-four, Evie's beauty remained startling, even in baggy pajamas and her blonde hair piled messily atop her head. Sometimes he still couldn't believe she had chosen him, this extraordinary creature.

"One of these days," he said, "I'm going to wake up to find you standing over me with a kitchen knife, reciting statistics about husbands who never saw it coming."

Evie finally turned from the screen, a smile breaking across her face. "Sleep with one eye open, Joseph Sinclair." The playful threat was their long-running joke, born during their first date when he'd discovered her true crime obsession. "Besides, I'd never be that obvious. You'd go missing during a hiking trip, your body never to be recovered. The perfect crime."

Joe poured coffee into two mugs, adding cream to hers. "That's oddly comforting. At least I'd be married to someone competent enough to get away with it."

"Damn straight." She accepted the mug he offered, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like the hypothetically murdered," he answered, settling beside her on the couch. His weight created a familiar depression in the cushions that naturally drew her toward him. "Collins is riding my ass about the Westlake project. Apparently, my designs aren't innovative enough for their budget constraints, which is code for please violate the laws of physics and materials science to save them money."

Evie tucked her feet beneath his thigh, seeking his warmth. "Want me to kill him for you? I know at least three ways to make it look accidental."

"This is why I love you," Joe said, taking a long sip of his coffee. "But I need the job more than I need Collins dead. At least until we build up more savings."

On screen, detectives were now interviewing the husband, whose performance of grief struck Evie as rehearsed, each sob calculated for sympathy. "Look how he keeps checking the female detective's reaction," she pointed out. "Classic manipulation. Wants to make sure she's buying it."

Joe glanced at the TV, but his eyes quickly returned to his wife. "You know it's creepy how good you are at this, right? Like, clinically concerning."

"Says the man who memorizes load-bearing calculations for fun."

"That's different. My obsession builds things. Yours just..." He gestured toward the bloody crime scene photos now filling the screen. "Dwells on the worst of humanity."

Evie's expression grew momentarily distant. "Understanding the worst helps you recognize it before it happens to you." The words emerged with a weight that briefly altered the comfortable morning routine into something heavier, dragging the ghost of her father's murder into their living room.

Joe squeezed her ankle gently, acknowledging the unspoken memory without forcing her to elaborate. This was the rhythm they'd established over six years together, knowing when to push and when to let things lie. "What's on your schedule today?"

The question successfully lightened the moment, drawing a groan from Evie. "Mrs. Hoffman's coming in for her monthly 'nothing fits me anymore' tantrum, where I'll spend an hour convincing her that it's the designers who've changed their sizing, not her body."

"The sacred lies of retail."

"The very foundation of my career," she agreed.

Joe stood, stretching. "I'm making eggs," he announced. "You want some, or are you too busy solving crimes from our couch?"

"I can multitask." She uncurled from her position, following him to their small kitchen. The condo wasn't much, two bedrooms, one bath, just under a thousand square feet, but it was theirs, or would be after twenty-seven more years of mortgage payments. Joe had painted the walls himself, Evie had chosen the furniture, and together they'd created this space that represented their shared life: comfortable, predictable, safe.

As Joe cracked eggs into a bowl, Evie leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. He automatically shifted left as she reached for plates. She handed him the salt before he asked for it.

"I had that dream again," she said quietly, watching him whisk the eggs. "The one with my dad."

Joe's whisking slowed but didn't stop. "The crime scene one?"

She nodded. "Except this time I could see the shooter's face, but it kept changing. First it was some random guy, then it was David, then..." She hesitated. "Then it was me."

"That's new," Joe said carefully. He poured the eggs into the heated pan, where they sizzled against the surface. "Any idea what that's about?"

Evie shrugged. "Probably just my subconscious being weird. Or too many murder shows before bed."

Joe didn't push, though his glance conveyed skepticism. He knew better than most how Evie's father's murder had shaped the obsessive need to understand criminal psychology, the hypervigilance that sometimes manifested as paranoia, the sense of responsibility for her brother that bordered on parental. The dreams had been coming more frequently lately, a detail he'd filed away alongside her increasing restlessness.

"Maybe it's time for a vacation," he suggested, stirring the eggs. "We could drive down to the Keys for a weekend, get a little cottage on the water. No crime shows, no work calls, just us and some overpriced seafood."

It had been over a year since they'd taken time away together, both of them caught in their separate daily grinds.

"That sounds nice," Evie said. "Maybe next month when the season slows down at the boutique."

They both recognized the gentle deflection for what it was, another small disappointment added to a growing collection neither acknowledged directly. Joe divided the eggs onto two plates, adding toast he'd prepared while they talked.

Joe glanced at his watch. "I should get ready." He stood, putting his empty plate in the sink. "Early meeting today."

"Want me to set out your navy suit? The one that makes you look like you know what you're talking about?" Evie offered, only half-teasing.

"Please. And maybe the blue tie with the subtle pattern? I need all the authority I can fake today."

While Joe showered, Evie selected his clothes, laying them on the bed with genuine care. Their morning routine had the comfort of well-worn paths, each knowing their role in their shared space. When Joe appeared from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, water droplets still running down his hair, Evie allowed herself a moment of appreciation for the man she'd married.

"You're staring, Evie," he said, catching her gaze as he reached for his underwear.

She perched on the edge of the bed, watching him dress. "One of the perks of matrimony."

"I'm thinking pasta for dinner? I'll pick up ingredients on the way home."

"Sounds perfect." The easy agreement about such a mundane detail somehow encapsulated their relationship: functional, affectionate, uncomplicated.

When Joe was fully dressed, Evie straightened his tie, using the adjustment as an excuse to pull him closer for a kiss.

"I'll text when I'm heading home," Joe said, forehead resting against hers for a moment before pulling away. He grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door. "Try to actually sleep if you can, instead of solving more murders."

"No promises," she called after him as the door closed.

Alone in the suddenly quiet condo, Evie returned to the couch, pulling her knees to her chest as the true crime show reached its conclusion. The husband had been arrested, just as she'd predicted. His performances of grief collapsed under the weight of physical evidence and inconsistent statements.

"Amateur," she murmured to the screen, a strange emptiness settling in her chest as the credits rolled.

There were still hours to fill before her noon shift. She channel-surfed through daytime programming, through talk shows, home renovation miracles performed in impossible timeframes, reruns of sitcoms. Nothing held her attention. Eventually, she drifted into a restless sleep on the couch, crime scene images bleeding into her dreams.

She woke with a jolt at 9:17, momentarily disoriented. Sunlight now streamed through the blinds. Miami had fully awakened while she dozed, the sounds of traffic and occasional car horn filtering through the walls of their condo.

Her phone buzzed from the coffee table. A text from David, her younger brother: Need to talk. Important. Coffee at Margo's in at 10?

Evie stared at the message. At twenty, her brother existed in a perpetual state of crisis, each one requiring her intervention. The last "important" conversation had involved him needing bail money after a bar fight. The one before that, he'd lost his job and needed rent covered.

More unusual than the request itself was the timing. David rarely surfaced before noon, his nights typically spent working odd jobs or, more likely, drinking with friends who encouraged his worst impulses. For him to be coherent and concerned enough to request a meeting at 10 AM suggested genuine urgency.

She typed back: What's going on?

The response came immediately: Can't text it. Please Evie. It's serious.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. She still had time before her shift began, and despite her exhaustion, curiosity prickled at the edges of her consciousness. David's message lacked his usual excuses and minimizations, the brevity suggesting something beyond his typical self-created problems.

Fine. 30 minutes, she replied, already calculating how quickly she could shower and dress.

As she headed toward the bathroom, her gaze caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. For a disorienting moment, she saw not herself but the dead blonde from the documentary, their features momentarily superimposed. Evie blinked and the illusion vanished, leaving only her own face staring back. She shook off the feeling and stepped into the shower, letting hot water wash away the morning's restlessness.

---

Margo's Coffee occupied the ground floor of a renovated Art Deco building in Little Havana. Its faded turquoise exterior stood defiantly against the encroaching gentrification that had already claimed neighboring blocks. Evie arrived ten minutes early, a habit ingrained since childhood. Her father had always said that punctuality was respect made visible. She claimed a corner table with clear sightlines to both the entrance and the back exit, another unconscious inheritance from a man fourteen years dead.

The café hummed with energy. It was a mixture of locals drinking Cuban coffee, tourists consulting guidebooks, and remote workers hunched over laptops. Ceiling fans pushed humid air in lazy circles, their rhythmic creaking providing counterpoint to the Latin jazz playing just loudly enough to blur neighboring conversations. Evie waited, watching the door.

David arrived seven minutes late, which for him constituted remarkable punctuality. He pushed through the door with the nervous energy that had characterized him since adolescence, his lanky frame seeming to occupy more space than its physical dimensions warranted. At twenty, he still carried himself with the awkward self-consciousness of a teenager, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if perpetually bracing for impact.

His eyes found Evie immediately. The family resemblance was unmistakable despite their different builds, the same striking blue eyes, though David's carried a wariness hers lacked. He wore jeans with artful tears that Evie recognized as manufactured rather than earned, paired with a vintage band t-shirt for a group that had disbanded before his birth. The carefully cultivated appearance of casual indifference required more effort than the authenticity it mimicked.

"Hey," he said, dropping into the chair across from her. His knee bounced, vibrating their table. "Thanks for coming."

"You said it was important," Evie replied, studying her brother's face. The shadows beneath his eyes had deepened since she'd last seen him three weeks ago. A faint yellowing bruise decorated his left cheekbone, nearly healed but still visible. "What's going on?"

David glanced around the café before leaning forward, lowering his voice. "I fucked up, Evie."

She suppressed the sigh building in her chest. These conversations typically began the same way, with David's confession serving as prelude to a request for money or intervention. "How much do you need this time?"

Hurt flashed across his features. "It's not about money. Not directly, anyway. This is... different."

Something in his tone gave her pause. Beneath his typical nervous energy lay a current of genuine fear she hadn't observed before. "Different how?"

David's fingers drummed against the table's surface. "Remember those guys I told you about? The ones who own that club where I was doing some maintenance work?"

"The Maddox brothers," Evie said, the names emerging from her mental catalog without effort. Her expression hardened immediately. "I thought you quit working anywhere near them. I told you specifically to stay away from them, David."

"I know, I know," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "But the money was good, and I thought just doing maintenance work wouldn't be a big deal."

"After everything we discussed?" Evie hissed, leaning forward. "The courthouse bombing?" She shook her head in disbelief. "We literally sat in my living room connecting dots about these guys being involved in organized crime, and you still went back?"

David had the decency to look ashamed. "That's actually why I needed to talk to you. I got arrested three days ago for possession. Just weed, nothing serious, but..." He inhaled shakily. "The cops handed me to these FBI agents. They started asking questions about the Maddox brothers, and I panicked. Told them everything about our conversations."

Evie felt the blood drain from her face. "What exactly did you tell them?"

"All of it. How you connected the courthouse bombing to the chemical compounds that one Maddox brother was discussing when I overheard him in the back room. They seemed really interested in how you figured it all out from such small pieces of information."

Evie felt exposed, as if someone had peeled back her skin to examine the workings beneath. What had seemed like harmless speculation between siblings had changed into potential evidence against dangerous men. "Jesus, David. These aren't shoplifters or petty dealers. If they're actually involved in bombings-"

"I know," he interrupted, genuine remorse shadowing his features. "I didn't think it through. I was scared, and they were offering to drop the charges if I cooperated."

The familiar mixture of frustration and protectiveness Evie felt toward her brother intensified. Since their father's death, David had been perpetually teetering on the edge of serious trouble, with Evie repeatedly pulling him back from the brink. This time, however, he'd dragged them both into something far deeper than his usual misadventures.

"Is that why you wanted to meet? To warn me?" she asked, mind already calculating potential repercussions and countermeasures.

David shifted uncomfortably. "Partly. But also because..." He hesitated, then gestured subtly toward a man sitting alone at a table near the back wall. "They want to talk to you."

Evie casually turned her head, assessing the man. Mid-forties, physically fit beneath the unremarkable suit, short haircut that prioritized function over style. He appeared absorbed in a newspaper, but his eyes weren't tracking across the text, instead remaining fixed at a point that allowed peripheral vision of their table. Everything about him radiated controlled awareness, from his positioning with back to wall and clear sightlines to exits, to the slight bulge at his ankle suggesting a backup weapon.

"FBI?" she murmured, turning back to David.

He nodded. "His name's Grant. Jason Grant. He said if you agreed to talk, they could make my charges disappear completely. No record."

The manipulation was transparent, using David's vulnerability to access her. Evie felt a flash of resentment at the pressure, even as she recognized its effectiveness. Her brother's record already contained juvenile charges and two misdemeanor convictions. A drug charge, even for simple possession, could mean jail time given his history.

"You could have just told me this on the phone," she said, suddenly understanding the insistence on meeting in person.

"They wanted it this way. Said it was safer, in case anyone's watching me."

As if on cue, the man, Grant, folded his newspaper and approached their table. Up close, Evie could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the only feature betraying the stress of his profession. Everything else about him projected calm competence.

"Ms. Sinclair," he said, voice pitched low enough to remain private in the busy café. "I appreciate you meeting with us. Your brother has shared some interesting insights about you."

Evie maintained eye contact, refusing to be intimidated despite the authority he projected. "I haven't agreed to anything yet."

Grant's expression remained neutral. "Of course. I'm simply suggesting a conversation that might benefit everyone involved. Somewhere more private than this." He glanced meaningfully around the café.