Two days had passed, and I found myself in my office, surrounded by a heap of files that seemed to grow larger with each passing hour. Three cups of coffee had already disappeared into my system, doing little to keep the fatigue at bay.
Earlier that morning, I'd pushed myself to a two-hour jog—a futile attempt to shake off the mental fog that clung to me like a second skin. The crisp air of 6 a.m. and the serene beauty of City Dahm's streets offered some solace.
City Dahm's central park was the heart of it all. The tranquil lake reflected the pale dawn light, its surface rippling gently as the cold currents danced across it. The sight was enough to distract me from my real world.
Then there were the joggers. A group of young women, bundled up in tight joggers and jackets, passed by me like a perfectly synchronized wave. They chatted and laughed as their breath fogged in the icy air. They looked carefree in a way I hadn't been in years.
Of course, I couldn't help but notice them. Men are visual creatures, after all. These women, though? They were out of my league, out of my age range, and out of my focus. I'd seen them in the summers, their outfits more revealing, their movements more relaxed. Back then, the park felt alive with an entirely different energy.
This morning, though, the cold had stripped away the noise, leaving behind a quieter, sharper beauty. A sight that reminded me how far removed I was from that kind of simple, fleeting joy.
I returned to the office with the chill still clinging to me. As I stared at the files on my desk, the memory of the peaceful park almost felt like a distant dream. Reality had a way of pulling me back faster than I liked.
The room was thick with smoke, the foggy haze clinging to every corner of my office. Streams of cigarettes burned away in quick succession, their butts piling up in the ashtray like a testament to my restless state. I'd lost count of how many I'd smoked that day, but it didn't matter. Each drag seemed to do little to lighten the weight that pressed on me.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the full burden of the case settle on my face like an invisible mask. Cassandra Cottingham. I was tired of her—too perfect. Every move she made, every word she said, every carefully crafted detail of her life—it was all designed to keep her pristine, untouchable. Too perfect to be real.
But I knew the truth. Somewhere in that marbled castle of hers, that meticulously curated palace of innocence, lay the heart of her darkness. The threads of her secrets were there, waiting to be unraveled.
I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a book, its cover slightly dusty from neglect. Crime and Punishment. A classic. My boss had pressed it into my hands months ago, insisting I read it. "Expand your perspective," he'd said. I'd started it but never got far. Reading had never been my strength—my passing grades back in the day were proof enough of that.
Flipping it open, I tried to focus on the words of the fourth chapter. The themes of guilt and morality mirrored too much of what I dealt with in the real world, and it was hard to escape into it. My concentration was already faltering when the door burst open, jolting me from the page.
Feeling the pull of monotony, I reached into my desk and pulled out a book—Crime and Punishment. A classic, or so I'd been told. My boss had shoved it into my hands ages ago, urging me to read it. "It'll give you perspective," he said. I'd managed a few chapters before setting it aside. Reading wasn't my forte, never had been. My mediocre school grades were proof of that.
As I flipped to the fourth chapter, the door swung open without warning.
Sasha entered, her presence cutting through the smoke like a gust of fresh air. She coughed lightly, waving a hand in front of her face. "Sir, you know I'm not a fan of your habits," she said, her voice tinged with exasperation.
She was bundled up in a thick gingham red coat and heeled boots. The combination made her look like a kid playing dress-up in grown-up clothes.
I smirked, reaching for the black fur trench coat hanging on the rack beside me. I'd bought it the day before, passing a storefront where it caught my eye. Practical and warm, it would just about reach her ankles.
"Take this. You must be cold," I said, handing it to her.
Sasha blinked, clearly surprised. "Christmas gift, sir?" she asked, her tone teasing.
"Yes, yes… from your brother," I said dismissively, my awkwardness hidden behind a gruff tone.
She chuckled softly but placed the coat on a nearby chair. Then, her expression shifted to business as she held out a sealed envelope. "The forensic report," she said, sitting down across from me.
The language was clinical, dense with scientific terminology. But the core facts were clear.
The cat had been decomposed for approximately a month. Its body showed signs of natural decay, with the skin turning dark and the fur matted in places, evidence of the environmental conditions. However, there were no visible signs of external trauma. No cuts, bruises, or abrasions — no markings that would indicate violent physical harm.
The autopsy revealed something far more sinister.
The stomach and gut lining were thick with arsenic. It was clear from the forensic analysis that the poisoning had been acute, likely ingesting a fatal dose of the substance that disrupted the cat's metabolic functions.
[Arsenic is a potent toxin, known for its ability to inhibit cellular respiration by binding to enzymes involved in ATP production. This halts the cells' ability to generate energy, ultimately leading to organ failure.]
Arsenic poisoning is possible... but why a cat? The symptoms would have been rapid and brutal. The cat would have experienced stomach cramps, nausea, and difficulty breathing as its systems shut down, all before succumbing to the toxins.
But still... why? A cat, a creature with no history of running afoul of anyone — unless... this was just a message.
"Arsenic poisoning?" I muttered, my voice tinged with disbelief. It wasn't an everyday toxin—it was deliberate, almost theatrical.
Sasha leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. "That's… unusual," she said.
"Deliberate," I corrected, tossing the report onto the desk. "Someone wanted that cat dead. This isn't random."
Her gaze flicked to the remaining documents. "Should we look at the hourglass next?"
I nodded, already reaching for the next report. The pieces were starting to come together, but with Cassandra, the closer I got, the darker the picture became.