MARBLED EYES

I left the canteen, the smell of stale coffee and overcooked food fading as I entered the controlled chaos of the room adjoining my private office. The news was blaring from the TV, every set of eyes glued to the screen, waiting for the next shred of information.

But there wasn't much.

Sasha approached, handing me the file with a steady hand. "Here's everything I could find on Cassandra Cottingham," she said. For someone new to the case, she was fast. Impressively so.

I took the file and flipped it open, scanning the contents.

Name: Cassandra Cottingham

Age: 40

Height: 5'8"

I paused at her mugshot.

She stared back at me from the photo with a cool, detached gaze. She wore a sleek black dress, her nails painted a deep, glossy red that matched her scarlet lipstick. Elegant. Calculated. Dangerous.

My eyes drifted to her hand in the photo—no ring on her index finger. Unmarried? Or maybe a widow. Either way, the absence was notable.

"She's a ghost," Sasha said, her voice breaking my train of thought. "No digital footprint, no family records—nothing." She sounded frustrated, her brows drawn together. "Even the media can't find much on her."

I smirked, closing the file. "Impressive."

Sasha blinked, surprised. "Impressive?"

"She's managed to stay invisible in a world where everyone's watching," I said, tapping the folder. "Takes skill."

Sasha crossed her arms, clearly not as amused. "She won't talk. Not yet, at least."

"Why don't you try?" I suggested, glancing at her.

"Me?"

"Who understands a woman better than another woman?"

Sasha hesitated, shifting on her feet. "She's... hostile," she admitted, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "The kind of hostility that doesn't fade when the door closes."

I leaned back, considering. "Then you'll need to find a way in. Everyone has a crack, Sasha. You just have to find it."

She nodded, though the unease lingered. Cassandra Cottingham wasn't just another suspect. She was something else entirely. And we both knew it.

""She just stared at me with those dead eyes," Sasha said, her voice trembling slightly. "Like I didn't exist. She wasn't giving me anything—no reaction, no emotion. She wouldn't even acknowledge the evidence."

Her hands clenched around the file, frustration tightening her features.

I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Maybe she hates women."

The joke fell flat, but I chuckled anyway, trying to ease the tension.

Sasha didn't bite. Instead, she crossed her arms and shot me a look. "Then you should try. Maybe she'll open up to you."

I turned my attention to the newspaper I'd been ignoring all morning, the one everyone else had been glued to. The headline glared back at me:

"Femme Fatale or Psycho Killer?"

Below it, a grainy photo of Cassandra being escorted into custody, her wrists in handcuffs that somehow didn't clash with her sleek black dress. The photographer must have caught her in a fleeting moment, her lips curled in a faint, unreadable smile. Like she knew something the rest of us didn't.

Another paper on the desk had a different angle:

"Maneater in Custody: The Mystery of Cassandra Cottingham."

She had a dozen names across different outlets. Each more sensational than the last.

"Femme fatale. Maneater. Psycho killer," I murmured, flipping through the articles. "Looks like she's already infamous."

*******

Two hours had passed, but it felt like I hadn't moved an inch. The office was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic clicking of my pen against the notepad. The numbers and names on the paper blurred into one mess. Cassandra Cottingham. How did she vanish like a ghost? Her past, her motives—everything was locked down tighter than a vault. The hospital where she worked, the one place I figured might give us a hint, wasn't talking. Her lawyer? Silent as the grave. Nothing but walls and shadows.

This whole situation—it felt like one of those chess games that never ends. No wins, no losses. Just endless waiting for the other side to make the first move. But Cassandra... she wasn't playing the game. She was watching it unfold, calculating her every move from the shadows.

Getting a warrant for her would be a fight. Hell, it was a fight just to get information. But I knew our department would figure it out eventually. They always did. There was no choice but to keep pushing forward.

"Hey, Lorenzo..." Sam's voice broke through my thoughts. His voice was groggy, like he'd just woken up, but it carried that familiar sense of ease.

I didn't look up right away, letting the silence hang for a beat longer before meeting his gaze.

"Up for a drink?" he asked, his grin wide and knowing. Sam knew when I was overdue for a break.

"Always up, buddy," I muttered, pushing myself out of the chair. I grabbed my coat and tossed the notepad aside. The case wasn't going anywhere, but maybe I could leave the office for a while. Just enough time to clear my head before diving back in.

Sam slapped me on the back, a bit too hard. "Good. I'm buying."

"Yeah, yeah," I said, pulling open the door. "Just don't order anything fancy. I don't need your 'I'm-too-sophisticated-for-this' drink."

He laughed, a deep chuckle that filled the hall. "No promises. Let's go."

We headed for the bar down the street—dark, noisy, with just the right amount of anonymity. I needed a moment of normalcy before diving back into the mess that was this case. I could feel Cassandra's presence still hanging in the air, but for now, I let it go. At least for the next hour.