Alice and Philip stand outside the Glenfield residence processing what they'd just heard, "we have to talk to Daisy Strong," Bateman says. Alice nods in response, "looks like she's home," she says, pointing towards Daisy Strongs Audi in her driveway.

The pair crosses the street over to Daisy's Lake House. Alice can't help but feel a twing of excitement at their possible progress as she knocks loudly on Ms Strongs scarlet red hardwood door.

Daisy slumps over her kitchen sink. The porcelain still bearing remnants of her earlier bout of nausea. She hears a knock at her door, and it makes her stomach roil, threatening to release another wave of sickness.

The memory of her conversation with Luke lingers— calling it a conversation is a stretch. He practically accused her of murder.
She'd expected sympathy not skepticism when she revealed Wes's assault. But Luke's relentless pursuit of the truth caught her off gaurd, leaving her tearful and panicked. He cannot possibly thing she killed him, can he? She wonders.

Normally his determination would be a trait she found attractive, but not it feels suffocating. The last thing she wants to do is face another possible shit storm by opening the door.

She hears the know once again and covers her ears with her hands and shuts her eyes tightly— breathing through her mouth. If I just ignore them, they'll go away. She decides.

For a moment, the knocking stops, relief washes over her as she thinks her unwanted guest has given up when she hears the blare of her elaborate doorbell. Daisy resists the urge to scream and hurl a chair at her door. "Go away," she whispers desperately.

"Ms Strong, we know you're home. If you ignore us, we will just come back another time," a voice behind her door she vaguely recognises says.

Daisy isn't ready to face anyone, not in her current state. She needs a moment to collect herself. For a fleeting instant, she considers ignoring the knock, letting them wear themselves out. But she quickly dismisses the idea. Better to confront it head-on, she decides.

Daisy walks over to her door—opening it on one impatient swing.
"What!" she says rapidly.

Alice's hand was drawn into a fist over her head. She was preparing to knock once more when the door violently swung open. "What!" The girl she recognised as Daisy Strong said.

____

Alice and Daisy have known each other since they were young, growing up in the same suburban neighbourhood and the same social circle. Though there is an eight-year age gap between the women, they used to play together occasionally. Not that either of them had much of a choice, considering their parents would often have gatherings that'd forced them to mingle.

Lena significantly got along with Daisy better than Alice ever could, Alice often wondered why. They didn't exactly have a lot in common, however they always found ways to carry on annoyingly well, leaving Alice by herself most of the time. She did not mind.

Daisy has always been described as smart, pretty, and thoughtful, but Alice feels that couldn't be further from the truth. She believes Daisy to be a condescending and pretentious brat who always made it a point to emphasise her families importance to the town. Albeit Daisy has never explicitly stated this, Alice feels she has often implied it. Making her to feel inferior.

As Alice looks at Daisy now, she notices her ghostly appearance— her pale skin white as a sheet and black hair tied in a messy bun. The beautiful Daisy looks ghastly. This gives Alice a sense of satisfaction she can not describe.

“I'm Detective Bateman, and this is my partner Alice Pines,” a tall, grave looking man flashes his badge at her. “We're investigating the death of Wesley Moretti, and we'd like to ask you a few questions,”

Daisy's bites the inside of her cheek hard “Why?” Daisy asks. “What does it have to do with me?”

“May we come in?” Alice— Detective Pines Daisy mocks internally asks. Daisy contemplates saying no and slamming her door in their face. That would make you seem suspicious. She quickly dismisses the thought and opens her door wider and they walk in.

Detective Bateman and Alice look around her house as if taking in its grandeur. Daisy's father had hired a well-known interior designer, and he'd done an exceptional job. Daisy holds her head higher in satisfaction as if waiting for a silent pat on the back.

“where can we talk?” Asks Detective Bateman. Daisy blinks herself out of her thoughts and ushers them through a carpeted corridor and into her living room.

Philip walks in first. It's a spacious room of grey, white, and black— fully furnished with only the finest hardwood and leather furniture, all in the colours black, grey or white, following the theme of the room. The left end of her room sports a 6ft (1.83 m) tall and 4-meter wide bookshelf stacked fully with what he assumes is all her favourite pieces of literature.

A long glass table in the middle of the room sits directly under a crystal chandelier. It's simply decorated with a clear vase with a single white tulip inside it. The table is surrounded by long jet black leather couches and armchairs, with blinding white throw pillows on them. Philip thought the Glenfield living room across the street was fancy— this one. . .this one is nothing but suffocating luxury.

He notices the black grand piano to his right. "Do you play?" he asks.

"Yes," Daisy replies, smiling. Her smile instantly transforms her once sullen face into a strikingly beautiful arrangement of features, which surprises Philip.

"Please sit," Daisy invites. He sits down carefully, while his partner throws herself into an armchair. Daisy sits down elegantly, crosses her legs, leans back into her seat, and smiles lightly. Her mood has certainly changed, perhaps due to the relief of having people admire her home like an architect revealing their work.

"Would you like anything to drink?" she offers. He agrees, and she quickly returns with freshly brewed coffee. She hands them both a mug and settles back into her seat. He takes a sip and is impressed by the taste. If only all coffee tasted like this. He thinks.

"How well did you know Wesley Moretti, Ms. Strong?" Alice asks. Immediately after taking a sip of her coffee. Daisy flinches slightly at the name, her once cheerful mood disappearing.

She smiles tightly and responds, "As well as anyone would know their gardener." When they remain silent, she adds, "Not well."

"How long did he work for you?" Alice inquires.

"Not long," Daisy sighs gently. "He primarily worked for my parents. I had a gardening service before him."

"What was he like?" Alice asks. "Did the two of you get along well?"

“No. . .I mean yes, I mean. As well as anyone—” she falters and sighs. “We had an employer and employee relationship. Nothing more”

“I see. So you didn't really talk?” Alice probes.

“No. I don't usually hang out with Gardener's,” Daisy replies in a patronising tone.

“when was the last time you saw Mr. Moretti?”

“hmm, I don't know for sure,”

“Try to remember, it's important,”

“The seventeenth?” Daisy says, unsure.

“Do you remember where you were on AUGUST 17th at approximately 4:30-5pm”

“Why are you asking me that?” She snaps.
“These are routine questions Ms Strong. We're asking everyone this,”

“I don't remember, I—” she stops and presses her lips into a thin line— breathing through her nose as if to calm herself. The detectives patiently wait on her, and she goes on, “it was a busy week. I may have been helping Queenie with preparations for her fundraiser, I may have been spending time with my boyfriend, I may have been out with my family. Like I said, I don't remember,”

Alice looks at Daisy and clicks her tongue, saying “it's just that, I have a witness that says they saw you talk to Mr. Moretti in your backyard at around 4, almost 5pm before getting into his truck and driving away.”

Bateman watches Daisy go pale, paler than she had been when she opened her door. She smiles back at them, but not one of her radiant smiles. A tight, uncomfortable smile— an attempt to hold it together, he thinks.

“You see,” Alice continues: “they said you did not return home until the 18th after 1pm. So I'll ask again. Where were you on AUGUST 17th between the hours of 4-5pm?”

“Are you accusing me of something?” Daisy says solemnly.

“These are routine questions Ms Strong” Alice maintains.

Daisy abruptly stands up. “Yeah. I think you should go,” He hadn't expected her to be cooperative considering the information they'd obtained, but he did not think she would shut them down so quickly. He and his partner get up, and she walks them out of the room towards her door.

“We'd like you to come down to the station later and answer a few questions for us if you don't mind,”

“And if I do?” she replies.

“See you at the station tomorrow, Daisy,” Alices says, it's the first time she's called her Daisy since they'd arrived.

“Get out.” Daisy says, and she shuts the door loudly behind them.

“What did you think?” Alice asks once they are out of the house and walking over to their car.

“She seemed on edge,” Bateman replies, “she knows more than she's letting on,” he silently wonders if she would have been more forthcoming if Alice hadn't hounded her

“Of course she is. Everyone here keeps secrets,” Alice remarkes as they get into the police SUV and drive away.

Daisy shuts her door securing it. Do they suspect her already? Why would they inquiring about her whereabouts? Does she require legal representation? And who is this witness they mentioned? Her mind raced with numerous questions at a time, making her slightly lightheaded.

“—saw you talk to Mr. Moretti in your backyard,” Alice's words echoed in her mind. Gathering herself, Daisy quickly made her way to her kitchen— pushing open the sliding glass doors open and stepping out into her backyard.

Walking a few paces towards her rose bush, she positioned herself exactly where she and Wes had talked days ago.

She glances over at the house on her right, the Park residence— Mr. and Mrs. Park work outside of Caper and aren't around. Their side windows are boarded for some odd reason. There's no way it's them, she thinks.

She turns her attention over to the house on her left, belonging to Ms Callaway's. Daisy observed the lack of windows on that side of her house. Making it impossible for Ms Callaway to be the witness. Unless Callaway had been on a mini ladder near her picket fence, she would not have seen anything. While Ms.  Callaway can be snoopy, she isn't the type to report anything.

Daisy stands still. Were they bluffing? Did she play into their bluff?  She wonders with growing frustration. She started to walk back towards her house when movement caught her eye. She looked over at the Glenfield residence— up at the window two stories up. She noticed it had a perfect view of the lake and undoubtedly her backyard. The curtains fluttered, as if someone had suddenly pulled them shut.

Fuck, she cursed internally. It wasn't a bluff, and of course was her. Rushing back inside, Daisy grabs her phone and calls Cole.