The search was cut short by the vibration in my pocket. My superior's name lit up the screen. I hesitated, the tension in the air thickening around me, but I answered.
"Yes, sir."
"Loren, abort the search. Abort the search," he barked, urgency crackling through the line like static.
"Sir, is everything okay?" My gaze flicked to the glass door. Outside, the world had shifted.
A crowd had gathered, spilling into the street like a storm. Their voices merged into a chaotic roar—a wave of anger crashing against the police department. Placards swayed in the air, their messages blurred by distance, but the intent was unmistakable: Justice for Cassandra. They believed her innocent.
Inside, the silence was suffocating, a stark contrast to the riot brewing beyond the glass.
"Loren, do you hear me?" My boss's voice snapped me back. "Get out. Use the backdoor if you have to."
I muted the call, exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My eyes scanned the room again, searching for anything—something—that could justify this risk.
Then I saw it.
A glass coffee table stood in the center of the room, immaculate, untouched. Atop it sat an hourglass. Not the kind you find in novelty shops or decorative boutiques—this was different. It demanded attention.
The liquid inside wasn't sand. It swirled unnaturally—a viscous blend of black ink, deep green, and a thin layer of emulsified oil that rippled as if alive. But the red… The red was what caught me. It didn't mix with the others. It floated, thick and defiant, like blood suspended in water.
I stepped closer, drawn by something I couldn't explain. I flipped it over. The liquid shifted, the red tendrils curling and twisting as if they had a mind of their own.
A chill ran down my spine.
Was it a clue? A message? Or just another layer of Cassandra Cottingham's carefully curated chaos?
The phone rang again, sharp and jarring.
"What are you doing?" my boss demanded, his anger palpable. "Get out of there, now."
I didn't have time to think. Instinct took over. I grabbed the hourglass, its cool surface smooth and heavy in my hands, and moved swiftly toward the back.
"Sasha. Sam." My voice was low but urgent as I found them near the rear exit. Their eyes mirrored my own tension. "We need to leave. Now."
Sasha nodded, her usual composure fractured by the distant echoes of the crowd. Samuel glanced at the hourglass in my hand, brows furrowing in curiosity but wisely said nothing.
We had a black garbage bag with a dead cat inside. The pendant now rested in my pocket.
"Look at the fruits. They're all ripe," Sam remarked, tone light but observant. "The kids will love it."
I clenched my jaw, surprised and infuriated at his mediocrity. We were on the verge of discovery in what I was sure was a house harboring unspeakable secrets, and he was focused on oranges.
But Sam, as always, had his own way of navigating through life. He plucked a nearby orange from a tree, rolling it in his hands with a grin. "Hey, the way I see it, it's a bonus. A couple of free oranges for the trouble. All we've got so far is a dead cat and some cheap pendant."
Sasha sighed, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her gloves. "Pretty sure the fruit won't help us solve the case, Sam," she shot back, her tone sharp but tinged with amusement.
I didn't have time for their banter. My mind raced, searching for an escape route, and then I saw it—a low fence connecting to the old woman's house next door. It was our best shot.
"Sam, Sasha, this way." I gestured toward the fence.
"Seriously? The neighbor's yard?" Sam raised an eyebrow but followed.
As we approached the fence, the distant roar of the crowd grew louder. Placards bobbed in the distance. One read "Frame Job!" in angry red letters.
"Move," I ordered, climbing over the fence. The rough wood scraped my palms, but I landed on the other side quickly. Sasha followed, her breath steady but strained.
Samuel, of course, lingered, stuffing the garbage bag full of oranges.
"Sam, we don't have time for this!" Sasha hissed.
"I got it, I got it," Sam muttered, hoisting the bag over the fence.
Finally, he climbed over, landing with a thud and a sheepish grin. "See? Easy."
We crossed through the old woman's garden, her roses standing tall and vigilant like silent witnesses.
As we slipped through the back gate and away from Cassandra's marbled castle, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched. That somewhere in the shadows, something was waiting.
Luckily, I had parked my car near Cassandra's neighbor's house. As I opened the door, the world outside came into sharp focus. A crowd had gathered, their voices a loud, discordant hum. Posters and banners waved in the wind—"Innocent till found guilty," "FRAMED"—all in bold, angry letters. They were protesting, rallying for her near her house, their faces twisted with fervor.
I caught sight of my boss, struggling to make his way through the throng of people. He was guarded by a handful of policemen, trying to keep order, but it was clear he was losing the battle. My jaw tightened.
The protestors shouted, their chants blending into a cacophony, but I saw him clearly—my boss, face red with frustration, shouting something I couldn't hear from this distance. His voice, muffled by the roar of the crowd, was swallowed by the chaos.
I could almost see the surrender in his posture, the way he gave up fighting, the lines of his face hardening with defeat. The police officers around him looked ready to retreat. Their uniforms clashed with the crowd's defiance. My boss's eyes darted toward the police vehicles, and, without a word, the officers began to move back, preparing to leave.
I clenched my fists, a knot of anger forming in my chest. It was a public surrender, a defeat that stung in a way I hadn't expected. This wasn't just about Cassandra anymore—it was about the people who were willing to ignore what was right because of pressure, because of noise.
And we were stuck in the middle of it.
I drove to City Dahm swiftly, the chaos of the protest receding in my rearview mirror. The streets outside felt strangely calm in comparison, a stark contrast to the storm I had just left behind.
As I entered my office, I found my boss standing there, his posture as rigid as I felt inside. The weight of frustration hung between us like an unspoken thing.
"Things have been more difficult than I anticipated," he said, his voice tight, his brows drawn together in a permanent scowl. "Plus, I've got my own work to focus on. Getting that search warrant? A nightmare."
I leaned against the desk, not trusting myself to speak just yet. My eyes flickered toward the stack of paperwork on my desk, each page a reminder of the mess we were in. The weight of the situation pressed down on both of us.
Without warning, he walked over and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture I knew well, one that carried both command and camaraderie. "I won't get into the details, Loren. You're my best man. I'm assigning you this task."
His words hit harder than I expected. The air seemed to shift, and for a brief moment, I was taken back a year, to another case, another time when I had been under his command. That feeling of being entrusted with something big, the pressure to succeed, to deliver—it all came rushing back.
It wasn't just a case anymore. It was personal.
I straightened, meeting his gaze, nodding. "Understood."
But in the back of my mind, I knew this was going to be different. Too many loose threads. Too many unknowns.