A heavy silence settled over the room after an hour, thick like the fog that clung to the city streets outside. I sat there in my coat, trying to ignore the oppressive air of the interrogation room. Cassandra, in her orange jumpsuit, sat across from me, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her body shivered, her coughing sudden and almost unsettling. Maybe the cold had gotten to her, but Los Angeles had been cruely bitter lately.
The interrogation room felt like a place forgotten by time, more a part of a foggy, sunless forest than a man-made structure. The chill in the air wasn't just from the temperature—it seeped into your bones, a cold that lingered long after you left. The walls, barren and sterile, absorbed the dampness, amplifying the discomfort. The tiles beneath my feet added to the feeling, each one cold and unforgiving, their smooth, glistening surface reflecting nothing but emptiness.
It wasn't just the physical cold that made the room unbearable—it was her unsettling presence. The kind of ominous sentiment that seemed to stretch endlessly, heavy and suffocating. It wrapped around us like an invisible fog, thickening with every passing second. Even the faint hum of the overhead lights felt distant, as if the room itself was indifferent to the presence of life, locked in its perpetual chill.
"It's so cold," she said, her voice light, as if trying to divert the conversation from the case to her weather forecast.
I didn't take the bait. "It's been colder than any past years," I replied, matching her attempt at small talk. But it wasn't small talk. It was all part of her game, her way of manipulating the space between us.
She let out a soft sigh, her gaze distant for a moment. "At least they can have some heaters."
I raised an eyebrow, shifting my weight in the chair. "Sorry our prison doesn't offer five-star treatment for a world-class genius surgeon like you," I shot back, my grip tightening on the reports in my hand.
Talking to her was like speaking to a mirror that not only reflected my every move but also had the nerve to throw barbed criticism back at me. She didn't just listen—she dissected, twisted, and sharpened every word I spoke, turning my own thoughts against me. It was as if she knew exactly how to undermine me, always waiting to point out a flaw or weakness, turning the conversation into a constant battle of wits.
Cassandra's eyes flashed, but she kept her expression neutral, her lips curling into something close to a smile. "I'm sure it's a very comfortable chair," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "if you can overlook the chill."
It was a distraction. A way for her to stay in control, to deflect from the questions that mattered. But I wasn't going to let her.
"Comfort's not what I'm offering, Cassandra," I said, my voice firm. "I'm offering answers. You're the one who's been making this a game. I'm just here to finish it."
For a moment, she didn't respond. Her gaze was locked on mine, unreadable. And then she let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "You think you're the one in control here, don't you?" she said softly. "But you're just a player in a much bigger game."
I leaned in slightly, not breaking eye contact. "Then let's see who wins this round."
It was a standoff. But I knew she wasn't just playing for control. She was playing for something deeper, something far more dangerous.
"So, Cassandra, what do you think?" I asked, throwing the question like a dart aimed at her unshakable facade. "Are you trying to be the female version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"
Her lips curled into a mocking smile, and she leaned back slightly, clearly amused. "The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," she repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is that what you call it? How quaint. You make it sound so... simplistic, Lorr."
She was savoring this, enjoying the game. The slight shift in her demeanor told me that my words had struck a nerve, but not in the way I had hoped. She wasn't defensive—she was entertained.
I pulled the first piece of evidence from the zipped evidence bag, cutting through the silence with the deliberate motion of a man who had run out of patience. The usual game of "I'm the great ophthalmologist, and you're just a detective" had run its course. It was time to get down to business.
The first item I retrieved was the cross pendant necklace, its dull surface reflecting the sterile light of the room. I didn't wait for her to make the first move this time. She hadn't said anything about it directly, so I was going to bring it up myself.
The first item I retrieved was the cross pendant, its dull, worn surface gleaming faintly under the interrogation room's harsh light. I didn't wait for her to acknowledge it—she wouldn't, anyway. I had to press her.
As I pulled it free, my gloved fingers fumbled for a brief second, and the pendant slipped from my grasp, falling to the cold tile floor with a soft clink.
Cassandra's eyes locked onto the falling pendant, tracking its every movement with the intensity of a black cat stalking its prey. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, and cautious—every twitch of her eyes betraying nothing but precision. She watched it drop, her body rigid, as if she were waiting for something.
I leaned forward, eyes fixed on her. "So, what's the theory behind this?" I asked, my tone calm but forceful, trying to make her break.
She scoffed, her lips curling into a sarcastic smirk. "What? A theory behind some cheap cross pendant?" she mocked, the words dripping with condescension. "You're really reaching if you think this trinket means anything."
Her unbothered attitude only made it harder to read her. But there was something about the way she played it off—too perfect, too practiced. Like a cat, she knew exactly how to act, when to move, and when to wait. She wasn't giving me an inch.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, watching her carefully. She wasn't going to make this easy.
"So what's the letter 'N' behind it? What do you think?" I asked, my voice low.
Her body language shifted immediately, a subtle yet undeniable change. Her eyes narrowed, pupils dilating as if her instincts were suddenly on high alert. For a brief moment, she resembled a black feline, poised and alert, her every sense sharpened. The careful precision in her movements reminded me that I wasn't just dealing with a criminal—I was facing a predator, one fully aware of the danger and ready to strike.
The room grew even colder.