Dragnelle's lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile but a ghost of something more inscrutable. Her head tilted again, just enough for the sunlight to catch her sunglasses, obscuring whatever emotion might have flickered beneath them. She didn't reply, but her silence carried its own weight, as though she were challenging him to justify the title of "friend."
Mickaël pressed on, undeterred. "I'll get straight to the point," he said, his voice shifting into something firmer, more deliberate. "I saw your ad, Dragnelle. Private investigator. I didn't expect to see your name in that line of work. But fate, it seems, has its reasons."
She let out a soft breath, almost a scoff, her lips quirking with the faintest hint of amusement. "Trouble, then?" she asked, her tone flat, though her voice carried an undercurrent of curiosity. Her grip on the cane shifted, her knuckles brushing briefly against her coat.
Mickaël exhaled through his nose, a short, humorless sound. "My wife's family," he said, his words deliberate and weighted, "controls the city. They own the police, the courts—every avenue for justice is theirs to dictate."
The mention of his wife tightened something in Dragnelle's expression, though she disguised it by adjusting the strap of her bag. She shifted her weight, the faint limp in her step barely perceptible, but the movement brought her just slightly closer. Her cane hovered in the air for a moment, suspended like an exclamation point to her silence.
"Two days ago," Mickaël continued, his voice dropping into something quieter, heavier, "we buried my sister-in-law. Myrha. The story is that she fell while climbing—a terrible accident."
Dragnelle arched an eyebrow, the gesture subtle but deliberate. "A tragedy," she murmured, her voice soft and detached.
"Not a tragedy," Mickaël corrected sharply, his tone cutting through the stillness. "Murder."
The word hit the air like a stone, sinking into the space between them. For the first time, Dragnelle's posture stiffened, her grip tightening around the carved wings of her cane. Behind her sunglasses, her gaze bore into him, unspoken questions brimming in the air between them.
"And you think I can help you?" she asked finally, her voice level but distant. Her fingers brushed against the edge of her coat pocket, a subtle, almost unconscious gesture that Mickaël noticed but didn't comment on.
"I don't think," Mickaël said firmly, his voice like steel. "I know. If anyone can, it's you."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, with a slight incline of her head, she replied, "I'll need details."
Mickaël's relief was palpable, his posture relaxing just enough to betray how tightly wound he'd been. He took a step closer, his hand brushing against hers lightly, a gesture so subtle it could have been accidental—but wasn't. Dragnelle didn't pull away, her fingers lingering just a moment too long on his before slipping back to her cane.
"I knew Myrha before Mioura," he admitted, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "She was... kind. She didn't deserve this."
Dragnelle's lips parted, her breath hitching slightly, though she caught herself before it could become noticeable. She tilted her head, angling her sunglasses to meet his gaze more directly. "And your wife?" she asked, her tone sharpened to a point.