I walked down the corridor, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Frustration hung on me like a heavy coat. The day had been grueling, and my encounter with her—that intense, calculating woman—had left my nerves frayed. She was like a storm that lingered long after it passed, leaving chaos in its wake.
At least I had Samuel Waltzman. Steady, reliable Samuel. At home, his wife may have the upper hand, but here, he was a rock—dedicated, sharp, and always dependable. It was hard not to admire his work ethic, even if his personal life was a different story.
"Mr. Hoffman?"
The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned, and there she was: a young woman, walking toward me with purposeful steps. She had fair skin that almost glowed under the harsh corridor lights and a neat bob with bangs framing her round face. Her petite frame was buttoned up in a blazer and tight skirt that ended just above her knees. Even in heels, she barely reached my shoulders. She looked asian.
"Sasha Campbell," she introduced herself with a bright smile, extending a hand. "I'll be assisting you on the case."
"Assisting?" I repeated, my tone carrying more skepticism than I intended. My eyes quickly sized her up. Her youthful face, her almost delicate demeanor—it was hard to picture her diving into the grim realities of this case. "Are you an intern?"
Her smile faltered just slightly, but her hand stayed steady. "No, sir," she said firmly, meeting my gaze. "I have nine years of experience in the field."
I raised an eyebrow. Nine years? She barely looked old enough to rent a car.
Her expression tightened, her eyebrows knitting together in a way that might have been intimidating on someone else. On her, it was… well, cute. Like a kitten trying to roar.
I couldn't help but chuckle, some of the tension in my shoulders easing.
"Something funny, sir?" she asked, tilting her head and crossing her arms.
"Not at all," I said, though the smirk tugging at my lips probably gave me away.
"For your information," she said, straightening her spine like she was trying to make herself taller, "I'm 32."
"Really?" I asked, my smirk widening. "You don't look it."
Her cheeks flushed, a mix of irritation and embarrassment flashing across her face. "I transferred here from Nebraska last month," she said, her tone crisp. "The department thought I'd be a good fit."
"Nebraska," I repeated, nodding as if that explained everything.
"Is that a problem?" she asked, her tone challenging now.
"Not at all," I replied, deciding not to push my luck.
We walked in silence for a moment before I glanced down at her. "Have you had lunch yet, Sasha?"
She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "Uh, no, sir."
"Good," I said, picking up my pace. "Let's grab something. You'll need your energy for this case."
"Wait, sir—" she called after me, the sharp clack of her heels quickening against the tiled floor. "I have small legs! You're too tall!"
I glanced back, watching her struggle to keep up. "Five-eleven," I said with a grin.
"Still too tall," she huffed, finally catching up, her breath uneven.
"Consider it part of the training," I said, holding the door open for her.
I stepped into the cafeteria, the smell of greasy food mingling with the faint bitterness of over-brewed coffee. Spotting Samuel at a corner table, I walked over and patted him on the back.
"So, you're not assisting me?" I asked, sliding into the seat beside him.
He let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping under the invisible weight of his workload. "Nope. Got my own case," he muttered, pulling a burger from a brown paper bag.
I glanced at the burger, then at his tired face. "Rough day?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
Sasha hovered nearby for a moment before settling at a table across the room, far enough to give us privacy but close enough to keep an ear on the conversation.
"I get it," I said, leaning back in my chair. "So… you're not eating your wife's cooking today?"
Samuel snorted, peeling back the foil wrapper from his burger. "Hell no. That stuff's terrible."
I grinned. "Can I have your wife's terrible food? I need something halfway decent in my system. I'll even trade you for the burger."
He slid a plastic container across the table with a resigned shake of his head. "Take it. Save me the trouble."
Popping the lid, I found what looked like a half-hearted attempt at lasagna. It wasn't gourmet, but it smelled edible enough. "You sure you're okay with this?" I asked, grabbing a fork.
"Better you than me," he said, taking a bite of his burger.
I dug into the lasagna, washing it down with a steaming cup of green tea. The green tea wasn't great, but it helped cut through the stale taste of cigarettes lingering in my mouth. My lungs protested every drag I'd taken earlier, but it was one vice I couldn't seem to quit.
Sasha sat in the corner, her gaze sharp and steady as it met mine. There was something calculating in her eyes, a sharpness that suggested she wasn't just here by chance. My boss wasn't one to hand off an important case to just anyone.
I glanced at the file case in her hand, the one she'd brought with her, and I could tell she was already diving into the details. She wasn't as green as she looked. She was sharp, focused—probably more than most people gave her credit for.
.