MARBLED EYES

I stepped out of the interrogation room, the weight of disappointment pressing heavily on my chest. Hours wasted. Hours spent sparring with Cassandra Cottingham, only to leave with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. She was as elusive as ever, her words carefully chosen, her demeanor composed, leaving me grasping at shadows.

I settled onto the worn leather couch in the precinct's lounge, glancing at the television. I usually avoided news channels—they were filled with sensationalism, half-truths, and noise. But today, I knew exactly what would be on the screen. Cassandra Cottingham.

America's newest obsession.

Her face filled the screen, framed by headlines that bordered on reverence rather than condemnation. "Femme Fatale or Misunderstood Genius?" "The Most Beautiful Woman in the World… or the Most Dangerous?" The nation was captivated, drawn to her charm, her poise, her calculated allure. They didn't see what I saw. They didn't sit across from her and feel the chill of her presence.

"Hey, chap," a voice pulled me from my thoughts. It was one of the junior officers, a young man tasked with petty crimes—petty compared to this. "How's the Cottingham case?"

I raised an eyebrow, letting my silence speak for itself. He nodded knowingly, the unspoken language of law enforcement. Everyone loved the drama of a crime story, especially one with a face like hers.

The channel shifted to a special broadcast. "Cassandra Cottingham: Eye Saviour or Eye Destroyer?" A melodramatic title, but it caught my attention. I leaned forward as the broadcast began.

"Good evening, and welcome to Today News Channel. I'm Rachael Smith, and tonight we bring you an exclusive interview with Dr. Olivia Davies, a colleague of the infamous Dr. Cassandra Cottingham. Dr. Davies works at Deltum Care hospital, one of the top-ranking hospitals in the country."

The scene cut to a lush, green hospital courtyard, a serene backdrop that clashed with the chaos Cassandra had left behind.

"Thank you for joining us, Dr. Davies," the reporter began.

"Thank you for having me," Olivia replied, her tone measured and professional.

"Let's start with the basics. How are you related to Dr. Cottingham?"

"I've worked alongside Cassandra for two years now. We were close, professionally. She had impeccable work ethics, always meticulous with her patients."

"And now she stands accused of being one of the most notorious serial killers in the country. Did you notice any… unusual behavior?"

Olivia hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. "Honestly? No. Cassandra was a respectable doctor, well-liked by the staff. The elites sought her out for their surgeries. She's performed over a thousand successful operations. She was… normal. Maybe a little grumpy sometimes. But who isn't?" Olivia offered a small laugh. "She respected her boundaries, especially when male patients tried to push them. She was particularly popular among them."

"I can see why," the reporter smiled.

"No companions," Olivia continued. "A workaholic through and through. Her life was her work."

I stared at the screen, every word sinking in. No companions. A solitary existence. The pieces started to shift in my mind, forming patterns I hadn't noticed before.

The reporter wrapped up the interview, thanking Olivia for her time. The screen cut back to the news anchor, who continued to dissect Cassandra's life as though she were a puzzle to be solved.

"From your perspective, what kind of woman is she?" the reporter asked.

Olivia paused for a moment, as if carefully considering her words. "A normal, respectable, and a beautiful woman."

Normal.

Respectable.

Beautiful.

The words echoed in my mind. I'd heard them before—from her neighbors, her patients, even her colleagues. Cassandra Cottingham was a master of appearances. She knew how to play the part. But beneath the surface, she was something else entirely.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because monsters who look like monsters are easy to catch.

But monsters who look like angels?

They walk among us, unnoticed.

"She was a simple woman with a strong work ethic," Olivia added, her voice steady, almost dismissive, as if the very idea of Cassandra Cottingham being anything but ordinary was unthinkable.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the interview unfold on the screen. Simple. Another word they used to describe her. Another layer to the illusion she had carefully crafted over the years.

But I knew better. Simplicity was her camouflage. Her strong work ethic? A convenient alibi.

She wasn't simple. She was calculated. Every move, every word, every glance—designed to mask the darkness lurking beneath.

I couldn't help but smirk bitterly. Simple? No.

Cassandra Cottingham was anything but simple. She was the embodiment of complexity, a puzzle with missing pieces, a predator in plain sight.

And while the world continued to paint her as a hardworking, misunderstood woman, I knew I was staring into the eyes of something far more dangerous.

She was a storm hiding in calm skies.

I turned off the television. Enough.

She wasn't a hero. She wasn't a misunderstood genius. She was a murderer. A predator in a world too blind to see the danger.

But I saw it.

And I was going to stop her.

"Quite a mystery woman," the policeman remarked, his voice tinged with curiosity. I didn't acknowledge him. My gaze remained fixed, expression blank, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind. There was no need to respond. What was there to say?

I walked into Samuel's office, the door creaking slightly behind me. Samuel barely looked up, too engrossed in his paperwork to notice my presence. I moved past him, the weight of the day sinking deeper into my bones, before stepping into the alley outside.

The cool night air hit me, but it did nothing to clear my mind. I fumbled through my jacket, pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes. I hadn't smoked since morning, and the craving hit me harder than I anticipated. The first drag felt like a release, but the tension never fully left. Cassandra. Her name echoed through my head, a constant hum, like the tick of a clock counting down.

Cassandra. Cassandra. Cassandra.

It was maddening how much she occupied my thoughts. I was alone tonight—frustrated, tired, and painfully aware of my failure. No lunch. No energy. Just this gnawing feeling in my gut, the weight of an impossible case.

The search warrant—every time it seemed within reach, it slipped away. There was nothing concrete. No hard evidence. Only whispers, shadows, and her undeniable charm. Her spotless career. She had everyone fooled. Everyone but me.

If she walks out of that prison, untouchable as always, I'll resign. There would be no point in continuing. I'd have nothing left.

I exhaled a plume of smoke into the night, my eyes narrowing. The odds were stacked against me. And yet, I wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.