The tabloid from The Dahm Times shook me to my core. It was the last thing I expected. Cassandra Cottingham—beneath her carefully crafted veneer of innocence—had managed to weave a web that reached even the most influential figures. I stared at the headline, and there it was, in bold letters: Henry Delon: Cassandra Cottingham's Unlikely Ally.
I'd known Delon. His reputation as a daring investigative journalist was nothing short of legendary. He was fearless, fearless enough to expose corrupt politicians and unravel organizations that had long held power in the shadows. His name alone was enough to stir a crowd. The very man who took down giants now found himself standing on her side. How did this happen?
Delon had always been the embodiment of bravery, his words capable of shaking even the most untouchable figures in society. I respected him for it, admired his unrelenting pursuit of the truth.
As I scanned the tabloid more closely, I could see it. He spoke of her with such reverence—almost an unspoken admiration. It wasn't the cold, calculated interest one might expect from a journalist and his subject; it was something deeper. Her work as a philanthropist, the things she'd done for society—he admired her for all the right reasons, or so it seemed.
I couldn't help but wonder. Was there more? Could there be a hidden connection between them? Not an affair, perhaps—though who could say—but something else. Something I couldn't quite pinpoint.
But the truth was, her personal relationships weren't my concern. Her relationship was not the main topic of this case. She could have a thousand relationships, a thousand admirers, if she wanted. It didn't matter to me. What mattered was the darkness I was digging into.
Samuel, as usual, was oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He picked at his orange, peeling it leisurely as he read through the article. His focus was elsewhere, completely disconnected from the tension that thickened the air between us. But even he had to pause for a moment. The tabloid's contents had left him dumbfounded, his casual expression faltering just slightly.
He cracked a grin, not fully understanding the weight of the situation. "Well, I guess oranges aren't the only thing that gets under your skin, huh, Hoff?"
I didn't answer immediately. I wasn't sure what to say. Delon wasn't the issue. Cassandra was. And yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that, despite all her manipulations and deception, this was a woman who knew exactly how to make even the strongest minds bend to her will.
And it left me wondering: Just how deep did this go?
I examined the evidence laid out before me: a dead cat, a pendant, a rusty key, and a sinister hourglass. Each item whispered secrets I wasn't yet privy to.
I picked up the hourglass, its weight solid and unsettling in my hands, before slipping it into an evidence bag. "Sasha," I called, signaling her over, "Take this and the cat to forensics. Let's see what they have to say."
"Yes, sir. No worries," she said, taking the bag with practiced efficiency.
As she turned, I couldn't help but notice her outfit—a sleek, tight skirt paired with a muffler and a coat that looked more stylish than practical. It was nearly December, and this year, the cold had been merciless. Just looking at her made me feel colder.
"Sasha," I said, my tone carrying a hint of concern, "aren't you freezing?"
She paused, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. "Yeah, the weather's quite upsetting," she admitted with a small shrug, her breath misting in the air.
I reached for my cigarette pack and lit one, the smoke curling in the chilled air before warming my lungs. "Cold doesn't play fair," I muttered, taking another puff.
"Buy me a jacket, then, sir?" she quipped, her lips curling into a teasing smile.
I smirked, the cigarette balanced between my fingers. "Which color?"
Her cheeks flushed faintly as she waved me off. "I was just kidding, sir."
Before I could respond, Samuel barged into the scene, his hands rubbing together furiously as he exaggerated a shiver. "Man, this place is like a freezer! No heater, no hope." His voice carried its usual dramatic flair, making the room feel a little less grim.
"Sir, I love black," he mimicked Sasha in a high-pitched tone, throwing her an exaggerated glance.
"No jacket for someone loaded," I shot back dryly, taking another drag and folding my arms.
Samuel grinned, undeterred. "Man, you earn the highest in this department," he said, shaking his head. "Maybe I've got a few seniority perks, but it's nothing compared to you."
I exhaled a thin stream of smoke, letting his jab slide with a faint smirk. Sasha, evidently unimpressed by Samuel's antics, rolled her eyes and headed out with the evidence bag in tow.
Samuel left the room, still muttering under his breath about the lack of heating and "underpaid brilliance." His dramatics lingered in the air long after he was gone, a faint distraction from the reality of the case.
I stepped out of my office, the usual hum of phones ringing and papers shuffling filling the air, making the space feel both lively and claustrophobic. It was one of those days where the weight of the case loomed heavy, yet the mundane office noise somehow offered a strange comfort. I flicked on the television, half-hoping for a distraction that didn't involve Cassandra Cottingham.
A sigh of relief escaped as the screen flickered to life with nothing but the repetitive broadcast: Cassandra Cottingham: The Innocent Prisoner.
I snorted, the irony hitting me harder than I expected. Innocent. A laugh bubbled up, but I quickly stifled it. I must have looked like a man gone mad, laughing at a headline, as the workers around me paused and exchanged curious glances.
"Would you like some coffee, sir? You've been at it all day," one of the clerks asked, her voice polite but tinged with concern.
I shook my head, too absorbed in the ridiculousness on screen to care about coffee. "No, it's fine," I muttered, not taking my eyes off the TV. "I just find it hilarious."
Her brow furrowed, the same polite look, but now with a touch of confusion. She tilted her head, trying to gauge if I was being serious. It was as if I'd just spoken in a foreign language.
"You find it hilarious?" she repeated, her tone tightening.
"Yeah," I said, finally turning to face her. "The world is buying into her story. The 'innocent prisoner'—" I made air quotes with my fingers, "It's almost too easy. Makes me wonder how much longer it'll take before everyone realizes they've been played."
She didn't respond immediately, just stared at me with that same disapproving look, her gaze cutting through the air like a blade. The concern had morphed into something more intense, as if she were questioning my sanity—or perhaps my focus.
I chuckled under my breath, shaking my head as I returned to the screen. The mockery in her eyes felt like a distant echo. At least I wasn't the one being fooled.