Her gaze lingered on orange placed on the cold table, their vibrant yet slightly woody color stark against the muted tones of the room.
Her nails traced the textured rind before she began peeling it with meticulous precision. The citrus scent, sharp and sweet, wafted through the air as she separated the segments. She didn't rush. Instead, it was almost ritualistic, as if she were savoring every moment of control. Finally, she popped a slice into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
I watched her, caught somewhere between curiosity and unease. Why now? Why the sudden interest in something she had ignored all the time.
"So, Lorr," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. Her tone was light, almost playful, but her words carried weight. "My intuition tells me you didn't eat my oranges. Am I wrong?" She arched a single brow, her eyes glinting with amusement—or was it something else?
I hesitated, caught off guard by her ability to read me so effortlessly. It wasn't just her words; it was the way she looked at me, as though she could strip me down to my barest self with nothing but her gaze. It reminded me of the surgical precision she must have wielded in her former life as an ophthalmologist.
It was unsettling, how she seemed to dissect the emotions of others with ease, yet remained inscrutable herself. A mirror reflecting nothing.
"You're right," I said, my voice measured. "I don't eat oranges from a criminal's garden."
The words weren't just a reply—they were a test, a blade meant to prod and provoke. I wanted to see if she'd react, if she'd flinch. But, of course, she didn't.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a faint smile. "My, my," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "You speak as though my accusations and my orange tree are somehow intertwined."
She let the words hang in the air, their meaning ambiguous. Was she toying with me, or did she genuinely find humor in the situation? I couldn't tell. That was the thing about her—she played her cards so close to her chest, it was impossible to see her next move.
"Don't you think it's a bit late for you? I mean you have been here for hours.," she said.
"It might have been hours. But I still have something about the reports. If you might speak something on it.," I said
"Well, I have never been a report person. I am a surgeon afterall.," she scoffed, sighing a breath as if she had completed the greatest eye surgery of all times.
She was partially right it had been speaking to her and not receiving from her end which is quite agonizing and irritating.
"I might come some day later for a fun chat.," I said, trying to make some jokes, I was quite infamous for my dry humour.
"Don't you think it's a bit late for you?" she asked, her voice smooth, laced with a hint of amusement. Her fingers toyed idly with the edge of the table. "You've been here for hours."
"It might have been hours," I replied, leaning forward slightly. "But there's still something about the reports. If you'd care to actually say something useful about them."
She let out a soft scoff, shaking her head. "Reports," she echoed, as though the very word was beneath her. "I've never been much of a report person. I'm a surgeon, after all." She exhaled, a deep, exaggerated sigh, the kind someone might release after completing the most intricate surgery known to mankind.
For a moment, I couldn't help but notice the faint curve of her lips, the way she almost seemed to revel in her own theatrics. She had a knack for deflecting, for brushing aside anything she didn't want to address, and it was as maddening as it was calculated.
"I might come back another day," I said, my tone dry as I rose to my feet. "For a fun chat, of course."
Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths. "Oh, fun, is it?" she murmured, her lips curling into the faintest smirk.
I shoved my hands into my pockets and shrugged. "Well, I'm known for my dry humor," I added, the corner of my mouth twitching into the ghost of a smile.
Her laugh was soft, almost imperceptible. It wasn't genuine amusement, not really. But it was acknowledgment.
"Don't quit your day job, Detective Lorr," she said, her tone light but pointed.
I sat back, letting the silence settle for a moment. It was rare for me to attempt casual conversation with anyone, much less someone like her. But I needed to find a way in—a crack in the armor she wore so flawlessly.
She was not the kind to be intimidated. No, she was the one who intimidated. The kind who made you second-guess your words before you even spoke them.
"Up for another fun chat, Lorr?" she asked suddenly, her tone light, almost teasing.
I met her gaze, leaning forward slightly. "Yes," I said, a faint smirk playing on my lips. "I've been pondering something." I paused, gauging her reaction—or lack of it—before continuing. "How do you think your supporters, the ones who've practically worshipped you, would react if it got leaked that… oh, half-decomposed bodies and, what, six or seven skulls were found in your basement and garden, respectively?"
It wasn't just a question. It was a carefully aimed dart, meant to pierce through her calm and shake her polished demeanor.
But she didn't even blink.
"I don't know, sir," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "I don't know how they'd react. Though…" She tilted her head slightly, as if pondering the thought for the first time. "It would be quite fascinating to find out, wouldn't it?"
Her words were delivered with the same ease one might use to discuss the weather or their morning tea. The sheer detachment in her tone sent a chill down my spine.
To her, it must have been sipping an evening tea or coffee on a casual weekdays.
She was dangerous, I already knew that. But it wasn't just the bodies, the evidence, or the crimes she'd allegedly committed. It was the way she carried it all with an eerie calm, a placidness that added another layer of complexity to her.
"The higher-ups are quite lenient to a women like you, viewing you as incapable of brutality. But imagine if the media press discovered those bodies or bones. It would be quite the spectacle, wouldn't it? Revealing the world's top ophthalmologist as a ruthless predator – the world might not be ready for such an unexpected twist.," I said, my voice was hoarse with almost the scolding. It was frustrating to see her calm.
Cassandra eyebrows flinched a little. Her voice was straight and irked, "I refuse to speak in this matter. However my advice as a doctor is that... You should take some medicine or smoke less, your habits has really taken a toll on you and take some rest. "
I leaned back on my chair. I was not in a mood to start another quarreling, maybe she was right I should smoke less nicotine or survive less in my caffeine addiction. I saw her losing composure for once, i might had been just another sick patient to her.
I kept aside the reports on dead cat and the hourglass, I was agitated enough to start to listen her another chaffing.
I had to be careful while handling her, people across the globe found her to be innocent. They presumed her to be innocent, atleast, I knew the gravity of truth. She was not innocent. Certainly, not in my eyes. I knew she hid something.
Cassandra's cheeks flushed red, a fleeting sign of anger, and for once, I felt the tiniest crack in her otherwise impenetrable composure. It was satisfying, even if only for a moment.
But I knew I couldn't push her too far. If she so much as uttered a word against me to the press—or worse, to my superiors—my career would disintegrate faster than a paper in a storm. I'd be the villain of the hottest crime story, my name forever synonymous with failure, while she'd remain the untouchable Cassandra Cottingham.
"I'm sorry," I said at last, forcing the words through gritted teeth. It wasn't an admission—it was a truce. A temporary surrender in a battle I couldn't afford to lose.
She tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint smile, as though she could taste my discomfort. "Apology accepted, Detective," she said, her voice silkier than ever.
But as she turned her attention back to the orange on the table, peeling it with the same precision as before, I realized she wasn't just playing games with me. No, she was constructing her narrative, piece by piece, and I was merely another pawn in her elaborate design.