Cassandra's gaze finally lingered on the reports detailing her vile deeds. Her eyes fixated on the broken seal of the file, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her face. She had always been observant, cunning, and deceptive in the most grotesque ways imaginable. Yet, what stood out above all was her arrogance—an unwavering trait that intertwined with an overwhelming sense of narcissism.
It was difficult to determine whether her narcissism was born from her string of accolades or the simple fact that she had evaded capture for so long. Her arrogance was insufferable, yet it was balanced by her striking beauty and her undeniable expertise as an ophthalmologist. These traits masked the depths of her darkness, allowing her to navigate the world with an air of untouchability, as though she was immune to consequences.
I pulled out more evidence from my pocket—a rusty key and a tarnished cross pendant. It was in a separate evidence bag. Cassandra's eyes immediately narrowed, her expression flickering with something I couldn't quite place. Then she smiled. Not a warm or reassuring smile, but one so menacing it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It was the kind of smile that wasn't just a warning; it was a promise of something far worse.
Breaking the silence, I spoke first. I always lost in this strange game of hers, this contest of unbroken stares. Whatever it was called, I had already been defeated too many times to count. One more loss wouldn't matter.
"Does anything ring a bell?" I asked, though her chilling smile suggested she already knew the answer.
Her face shifted back to a mask of nonchalance, but the faint curve of that wicked smirk still lingered. "Nothing," she replied with feigned indifference.
I leaned forward, holding up the key and pendant. "They're from your garden, aren't they?" My voice carried a faint edge of annoyance, but I kept my tone steady, trying not to betray the tension crawling under my skin.
Her eyes briefly met mine, dark and unreadable. "Yes, they are," she said, her voice soft but laced with something cold and sharp, like the edge of a blade.
For a moment, the room felt like it had shrunk, the air thick with the weight of whatever game she was playing. And as always, I couldn't tell if I was still in control—or if I ever had been to begin with.
Her admission hung in the air like a loaded gun. I wanted to press her further, to break through the cracks in her carefully constructed facade, but I knew better. Cassandra Cottingham was a master at this—the subtle art of making you question who was really holding the reins.
I placed the evidence gently on the table between us, watching her every move. The pendant's tarnished metal caught the dim light, casting faint shadows on the surface. "A garden is a place for growth," I said slowly, my words measured. "For life. Yet, somehow, with you, it feels like the opposite."
Her smirk widened, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make my stomach twist. "Such poetic musings, Detective. Perhaps you missed your calling?" she replied, her tone laced with mockery.
I ignored the bait. "Who did they belong to?" I asked, leaning in slightly.
Her fingers tapped against the edge of the table in a steady rhythm, the only sound in the suffocating silence. Her eyes flicked toward the key and pendant but didn't linger. "It's funny," she said at last, her voice soft and deliberate. "People are so quick to assign meaning to objects. Keys, pendants,… They're just things, aren't they? You're the one giving them a story."
My jaw tightened. "And what's the story here, Cassandra? Help me out."
Her laughter was low, almost inaudible, but it sent a chill through me all the same. She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head as if she were sizing me up. "Why don't you tell me, Lorr?" she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "You seem to think you know everything already."
I stared at her, willing myself to stay composed. She was trying to provoke me, to throw me off balance, and I couldn't afford to let her win. "They're not just things," I said firmly. "They meant something to someone. Someone who doesn't have the luxury of answering for themselves anymore."
Her smile faltered, just for a second—a crack in the armor. But it was gone before I could seize it. "What a noble sentiment," she said, her tone flat. "But noble sentiments won't solve your case, will they?"
She leaned forward then, her elbows resting on the table, her face mere inches from mine. Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of delight. "You're not ready for the answers, Lorr. Not yet."
The room felt colder, heavier, as if the air had been sucked out. For a moment, I couldn't tell if it was the weight of her words or my own growing sense of dread.
"How did you find that key?" she asked, her voice calm, but her eyes sharp, probing.
"One of my trusted friends found it while he was plucking your perfect oranges," I replied evenly, watching for her reaction. "He's quite impressed by your trees, by the way. Said they were... immaculate."
Her lips curled into a slow smile, dangerous and deliberate. "Oh, is that so? How flattering," she said, her voice smooth like honey but dripping with mockery. "But tell me, Detective, what kind of investigator picks oranges from an accused's garden? Was the temptation that irresistible?"
I met her gaze, unfazed. "Sometimes temptation leads to discovery," I said, placing the key on the table between us. "Like this, for example. Tied neatly to one of your branches, as if it were an ornament."
Her smile didn't waver, but her eyes flicked toward the key, a glimmer of recognition crossing her face. "An ornament?" she repeated, her tone playful. "How charming. Perhaps I should take up decorating for the holidays."
"You have a peculiar sense of decoration," I countered, keeping my voice steady. "Rusty keys don't exactly scream festive, do they?"
She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps not to you, Detective. But isn't beauty subjective? Even rust can tell a story, if you're willing to listen."
"Then tell me," I said, leaning forward. "What's the story behind this one? Why tie it to a tree, of all places?"
Her fingers tapped the edge of the table, slow and deliberate, as if weighing her answer. "Maybe I wanted to see who would notice," she said finally, her smile returning with a dangerous edge. "Or maybe... it was just a reminder. A little memento."
"A reminder of what?" I pressed.
Her smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "Of how easily things—people—can be overlooked. Forgotten. Lost," she said, her voice soft, almost wistful.
The weight of her words hung in the air, and for a moment, I wondered if she was revealing more than she intended—or if this, too, was just part of her game.