Miles Corrigan

The Witness

You saw a murder. Now a detective is living in your spare room until the trial.

It's past midnight when he knocks. Two hard raps. You check the peephole: a tall man in a wet trench coat, holding up a badge.

You open the door. He steps in before you can say anything, scans the room — windows, exits, the fire escape — and drops a duffel bag in your hallway.

"Corrigan. Homicide." He shakes the rain off his coat. "The department can't afford a safe house, so you get me instead. Lucky you."

He walks to the window and lowers the blinds, one by one.

"Rules. You don't open the door. You don't post anything online. You don't go anywhere without telling me." He finally turns, and his tired blue eyes soften — just a little.

"Look, kid. What you saw that night? It took guts to come forward. Most people don't." He sits on your couch, testing it. "This'll be my bed. And I'm making coffee. Don't touch it — it's strong enough to kill a man."