I took the last drag of my cigarette, savoring the bitter warmth before crushing it into the ashtray.
She carried herself like royalty, chin high, every movement deliberate. Even now, in the interrogation room, her posture never faltered, her presence commanding. I imagined her luring victims with that same effortless grace, her words velvet, her smile a blade wrapped in silk.
Her eyes were locked on mine, intense and unwavering. It wasn't love—I was sure of that. But was it admiration? Contempt? Or something far more unsettling? I couldn't tell.
She was still watching me, her expression - unreadable. Maybe she resented that I was the one asking the questions instead of lying in a ditch somewhere, a part of her macabre eyeball collection. The thought unsettled me, but I didn't show it. If she wanted to play the waiting game, I was happy to oblige.
This wasn't just difficult because of its gruesomeness. Her gender added another layer of complexity. Courts always seemed to lean in favor of women, one misstep in the way I handled her, and I'd be the one on trial. A wrong word, a stray hand, and I'd be the monster of harrasment, both sexually and physically. She knew that. She had the upper hand, and she was damn good at using it.
My hand itched to light another cigarette, but I resisted. Four was already pushing my lungs to their limit. They needed at least an hour to recover before I could justify another. The craving was almost enough to distract me from the reality of this case. Almost.
I pressed the cigarette out on the table, the faint scorch mark a testament to my fleeting self-control. The box in my pants pocket pressed against my thigh, a nagging temptation whispering in an unhealthy, familiar voice. I folded my legs and crossed my arms, trying to cage the restless energy that threatened to escape.
The silence grew heavy, but I didn't break it. Instead, I met her gaze, as if daring her to blink first. She didn't flinch. Her eyes were ice-cold, yet there was a strange elegance to her, an air of intelligence and refinement that made her dangerous in a way few suspects were. I couldn't help but wonder how she'd reeled her victims in. Was it her charm? A well-practiced smile? What promises had she made before she killed them?
I leaned back in my chair, dragging the cigarette packet from my pocket. With practiced ease, I pulled out the lighter and lit the cigarette, ready to raise it to my lips.
"Don't."
Her voice was firm, and her hand closed over my wrist before I could take that first indulgent drag. I paused, startled by the gesture. For a fleeting moment, she felt less like a criminal and more like... a wife. The kind of wife who might stop me from indulging in my dear cigarettes, just like this.
Silently, I slipped the cigarette and lighter back into my pocket, obedient, almost domestic, like a husband conceding to his partner's concern.
"You're still young," she said, her tone softening. "You've got a long way ahead of you."
Her words caught me off guard. Young. It had been a while since anyone called me that. Maybe those long hours at the gym were paying off after all.
"I'm forty-one," I replied, unable to suppress a hint of pride.
She smiled faintly. "You look mid-thirties."
The awkward silence thickened, pressing down on the room like a heavy fog. I coughed, the rough, scraping sound breaking through the oppressive quiet. It echoed faintly off the walls, amplifying the room's suffocating smallness. I rubbed my hands together, the dry rasp of skin on skin feeling louder than it should in the stillness.
My gaze drifted to her hands—bony and delicate, her pale skin etched with a network of faint blue veins. Her fingers were slender and unnervingly long, almost elegant. They looked fragile, as though a strong wind might snap them. Feminine, even.
But those hands had killed. Those weak, graceful hands had taken lives, one after the other. The contrast was chilling. How something so fragile could wield such monstrous strength was beyond comprehension.
"You done?" she asked, her tone casual yet teasing. One hand propped up her face while the other rested lazily on the table. As I stood, her face tilted upward, catching the dim light. I hated to admit it, but there was something undeniably seductive about her. She knew it too, playing her game with practiced ease. Pure seduction. Her legs shifted restlessly beneath the table, drawing my attention despite myself.
Could she be afraid?
"You're not giving me anything," I said finally, my voice resigned. "I don't have another option."
She didn't reply—just smiled faintly and dropped her gaze, as though she'd already won.