I drove to my office, a quick ten-minute drive through the city of Dahm in Los Angeles. My usual landmark was a famous bakery, celebrated for its fresh bread and signature croissants. Its reputation extended far beyond the city, drawing celebrities from around the world to savor its unique creations. The highlight of their menu? A decadent, chocolate-filled croissant that had achieved legendary status.
When I pulled into the department building's parking lot, I was greeted by chaos. Reporters swarmed the area, their voices a cacophony of urgency. The kind of news that could terrify any ordinary citizen was clearly brewing.
God only knows what task awaits me today.
"Sir, sir!" The reporters blocked my path, microphones in hand and cameras rolling.
"Do we have any updates?" one of them pressed.
"No information as of now," I replied curtly, brushing past them.
Inside, the atmosphere was tense. My coworkers stood huddled around a television, their faces grave as they absorbed the news.
"Good morning, sir," they greeted as I entered.
I responded with a quick nod, too preoccupied to offer more.
The sound of the broadcast filled the room, every word heavy with dread. Something terrible had happened
This case was bulky.
I stepped into the interrogation room, my nerves as raw as the case file I hadn't been handed. The higher-ups wanted it clean—no preconceived notions. Just me, her, and the truth.
Rumor had it, she didn't speak to anyone. Not her defense lawyers. Not the cops who'd dragged her in.
Quite a vixen I have here
But as I walked in, she turned her head, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile.
"Hello, officer," she said, her voice soft, bright—feminine, but not innocent.
She exuded an almost ethereal elegance, the kind that demanded attention the moment she entered a room. Her raven-black hair fell in silky waves, perfectly framing a face that could have graced magazine covers. Her chocolate-brown eyes held an unsettling depth, as if they could pierce through your soul and yet remain unreadable. They gleamed with intelligence and a hint of mischief, daring anyone to decipher her thoughts.
Her skin was flawless, smooth and radiant, like the kind achieved only through meticulous care or expensive treatments. Even in the drab confines of the interrogation room, her beauty seemed untouchable. Her manicured hands rested lightly on the table, nails shaped to perfection—neither too long nor too short—speaking of someone who valued control and presentation.
If we hadn't met here and instead crossed paths at a bar, I'd have offered her a drink without hesitation—and probably tried my luck.
"Orange doesn't suit you," I remarked, gesturing toward her attire.
"You can take it off, then," she said, her voice smooth, yet with a hint of something sharper beneath the surface.
I smirked, meeting her gaze. "Unfortunately, I am not interested in taking your orange suit off."
"Why, Detective?" she interrupted, leaning forward ever so slightly.
"But I can take you off the streets," I finished, holding her stare.
"Quite the challenge," she shot back, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Don't you think?"
I chuckled a bit. No way I was going to be seduced by a criminal like her and my statement was a testament to it.
"I have been following your case for five years. You are as crazy as the news says."
"I am honoured.," she smiled
The words landed heavy. Honored? By what—infamy? Recognition? I couldn't tell if she was mocking me or herself.
I was an experienced detective, sure, but this—this was uncharted territory. My usual tactics wouldn't work here. I had to keep my cool, show no weakness. With men, I could lean on fear. But with a woman like Cassandra, it was all about finesse. She thrived on manipulation, on twisting the narrative to suit her. And that made her even more dangerous.
"Your name?" I asked, playing it cool.
She tilted her head, feigning coyness. "Cassandra Cottingham."
"And your profession?"
"I'm an eye surgeon. An ophthalmologist, actually." Her voice was steady, almost proud, as if she were at a cocktail party instead of a police station.
I was still green when it came to dealing with someone like her. Sure, I'd been around the block, handled plenty of cases, but this was different. Five years ago, I had worked alongside my boss on a case that was eerily similar—same psychological profile, same manipulative tactics—but it had turned into a nightmare. The suspect had been a man, and I could use my usual methods: intimidation, anger, threats. But Cassandra? She wasn't some street thug. She was sharp, composed, and fully aware of her power. She wasn't scared of me or anyone else.
I was an experienced detective, sure, but this—this was uncharted territory. My usual tactics wouldn't work here. I had to keep my cool, show no weakness. With men, I could lean on fear. But with a woman like Cassandra, it was all about finesse. She thrived on manipulation, on twisting the narrative to suit her. And that made her even more dangerous.
I lit a cigarette, the sharp snap of my lighter breaking the silence. I needed something to anchor me, anything to cut through the strange energy in the room. Puffing out smoke, I studied her again. An eye surgeon. Both ironic and chilling.
What had she seen? Or rather, what had she made others see?