The faint light of dawn spilled through the towering arched windows of Judge Mathew Thorne's gothic mansion. A sharp, icy wind rattled the panes, as though it sought to penetrate the cold stone walls. Mathew stood by the window in his finely tailored black silk robe, gazing at the London skyline, its spires and bridges painted in hues of silver and gray. His expression was pensive, his striking features set in quiet contemplation.
The faint chime of a clock echoed through the expansive halls, signaling the arrival of morning. He turned away, his dark eyes betraying no emotion. The mansion was silent, save for the methodical footsteps of Alden, his loyal butler, as he approached the judge's chambers.
"Good morning, Your Honor," Alden said in his usual reserved tone, bowing slightly as he placed a tray on the table. "Your tea, Earl Grey, as you prefer."
"Thank you, Alden," Mathew replied, his voice smooth but distant.
Mathew moved with precision through his morning routine, each step deliberate and practiced. After his tea, he proceeded to the grand marble bathroom, where the gold fixtures gleamed under the soft glow of an ornate chandelier. His thoughts lingered on a dream he could not entirely recall... fragments of laughter, shadows, and a name whispered in the dark.
By the time he emerged, dressed impeccably in a dark three-piece suit, his mind was clear, his expression a mask of authority. He descended the grand staircase, its banister carved with intricate details of mythical beasts.
Alden awaited him in the drawing room, a leather folder in hand. "Your case files for the day, sir," the butler announced, handing it over with a slight bow.
Mathew accepted it, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. "The Russo case?" he murmured, his brow furrowing.
"Yes, Your Honor," Alden said, his tone neutral but cautious. "The disappearance of five young men over the past three months. The primary suspect, Abigail Russo, was apprehended last night."
Mathew opened the folder, revealing a photograph of Abigail Russo. Her striking beauty leapt off the page, long, dark hair cascading around her shoulders, piercing eyes that seemed to see into one's soul, and a faint, enigmatic smile that sent an unspoken challenge.
"She doesn't look like a murderer," Mathew muttered, almost to himself.
"Appearances, as you well know, can be deceiving," Alden replied, stepping back slightly.
Mathew closed the folder and exhaled slowly. "Five men. No bodies. No witnesses," he said, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
"The evidence is… thin," Alden admitted. "But there's something unusual about her, sir. Something… unsettling."
Mathew turned toward the window again, the gray sky now tinged with the pale gold of morning. "Then we shall see, won't we?" he said, his tone carrying a hint of intrigue.
He didn't say it aloud, but as he stared into the horizon, a flicker of unease danced in his chest. There was something about Abigail Russo that felt more personal than he cared to admit.
"Prepare the car, Alden," Mathew said firmly. "It's going to be an interesting day."
As Alden bowed and left to make arrangements, Mathew lingered for a moment longer, his hand tightening around the folder. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he felt the faintest echo of her name, as though it had been there long before he'd read it.