"Ten minutes," he said flatly, his voice as empty as his eyes, and gestured for her to follow.
Dragnelle's lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile. "That's all I need," she replied, her tone smooth, dripping with confidence.
She followed him into a narrow hallway that led to the back room. The dim lighting here was even worse than in the front, and the smell of mildew seemed to settle in the corners of the room. Amidst the clutter of piled paperwork and broken chairs, a battered filing cabinet sat like an abandoned relic of a more organized time. The young man moved quickly, pulling out a folder with a single, fluid motion, and handed it to her. His fingers lingered over the edges of the folder just a moment too long, his eyes flicking toward her with a mixture of caution and curiosity.
"These are the photos from her death," he said in a low voice, almost conspiratorial. "The injuries are consistent with a fall from a height of about 30 meters. Multiple skull fractures, massive brain trauma—"
Dragnelle flipped through the photos with detached precision. Her fingers brushed over the images as her eyes moved swiftly from one to the next, noting the gore with an unflinching focus. The young man rambled on, describing the specifics of the wounds in detail, but Dragnelle wasn't interested in his technical analysis. She already knew everything he was saying.
But then, she paused on a particular photo. Holding it up, she narrowed her eyes. "And what's this?" she asked, her voice deceptively light, though there was a sharpness hidden beneath. She pointed to the fingers of the deceased, her finger delicately tracing the image as if she could somehow will the truth to jump out. "On her fingers?"
The young man leaned closer to examine the photo, his brow furrowing slightly. "Climbing chalk," he answered with a certain nonchalance, as if this was a trivial detail. "She must've been climbing. It's common for climbers to use it to improve their grip."
Dragnelle's lips twitched as she absorbed the information. She wasn't finished. "But why are her fingers broken?" she pressed, her tone now laced with something colder.