When I finished the final lines of Weighed Hospitality and Outshined Faces, I turned to the last genre for the month, a mystery. I have several detectives waiting in the wings, but Kyle Rickman has been the loudest presence lately, so I let him step forward. The crime itself took time to surface. The idea felt familiar, like something half-remembered, a whisper without a source. Rather than chase it, I handed that uncertainty to Kyle and let him decide where the story would go.
Some mysteries don’t begin with sirens or shattered doors. They arrive quietly, wrapped in paperwork, and carried by someone who wants answers but isn’t sure they want the consequences. Sometimes everyone involved hopes the problem will resolve itself without attention, without exposure. This story opens in that space, where discretion matters, reputations are fragile, and the truth carries weight long before it’s revealed.
This case finds Kyle Rickman behind his desk, doing what he does best. He listens. He asks the right questions. He follows a trail that doesn’t look like much until you understand why it exists at all. There are no shortcuts here, only process, patience, and the understanding that not every problem wants to be solved the same way.
If you enjoy mysteries built on restraint rather than spectacle, and stories where meaning emerges through detail, conversation, and choice, this one is for you. Silent Books is available now for patrons, alongside other stories across this and other genres. Your support helps keep these quieter stories alive and gives you a voice in shaping what gets written each month.
“Have you discovered who was stealing my late husband’s stamps?” She stood dripping in a gray coat.
“I wasn’t expecting you today.” Kyle closed the ledger, set his half-empty coffee atop it, and dropped two manila envelopes beside it. He pointed to the free chair. “Join me. We’ll go over what I found.”
She shook her head, clutching her purse to her stomach. “I hired you four days ago to find out who was stealing from my late husband’s estate. I want a plain answer, not a dissertation.”
“It isn’t simple anymore.” The investigator knocked on his desk before using one envelope to gesture at the vacant seat. “Sit down. We need to discuss what comes next.”
With a huff, she walked over and claimed the chair. Looking down her nose, she turned her head as she laid her purse on her lap. “What did you find that makes this complicated? Especially considering I want the police involved.”
He extended the envelope toward her. “Before we get into everything, let me ask you this. How much do you know about your husband’s collection?”
“He was a major collector.” She released her purse and took the envelope. “What’s its relevance here?”
“Mrs. Marsh, did Arthur take good care of his collection?”
She rolled her head and peered into the folder. “Of course he did. My husband was a serious collector. While I don’t know all the details, he used a climate-controlled storage room that I could never access. Everything was insured. And the ledgers detailing his collection rivaled old phone books.”
“Evelyn, I’m assuming in addition to controlling how the stamps are maintained, it ensures who can enter.”
“Yes, I provided you with every report, including the maintenance logs.”
“Unfortunately, nothing came from them.” Kyle shrugged as he turned his palms up. “Yet we know stamps went missing. Which means someone bypassed the security. Do you have that kind of access?”
“Of course not,” Evelyn said, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re supposed to be an excellent investigator, but so far I’m not impressed.”
Kyle didn’t rise to the bait. He glanced at the rain streaking down the window, already weighing how much truth she could withstand, and the cost of keeping it. “My reputation comes from being thorough. I catalogued the collection on day one, then checked records and storage logs. However, on the third evening, I made a key discovery.”
Kyle tapped the envelope in her hand. “Take out the photos.”
“What did you discover?”
“Look at them.”
She rolled her head and removed the images from the envelope, and her mouth fell open.
.
.
.
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