Detective Carter leaned back in his chair, the dim light of the precinct casting long shadows across the wall. Micha's case was becoming a web of contradictions and elusive truths. Five interviews, five stories, and not one gave him the clear lead he desperately needed.
He grabbed the recorder from his desk, playing back snippets of the interviews from earlier in the day, hoping something he'd missed would jump out at him.
---
Amber had been Micha's closest friend and the first to find her body together with Kyro. Her voice trembled as she recounted the events.
"I—I came to her room with Kyro. Micha was missing for two days now, her phone off so we thought we'd check in. You know, just to see if she wanted to talk… That's when I saw her. The knife, the blood. I panicked, and Kyro stepped in and called you guys right away!"
Carter had pressed her on why she hadn't mentioned seeing the knife earlier. She'd frozen, her gaze darting to the window as though searching for a memory that didn't exist.
"Are you sure, Amber?" he'd asked. "No strange noises? No movement in the hallway?"
"No. Nothing. I swear."
---
James, Micha's ex-boyfriend, had been less forthcoming. He sat slouched in his chair, arms crossed, a sneer playing at the corners of his lips.
"Look, yeah, we had our issues. Big deal. We broke up a couple of months later. That doesn't mean I'd kill her," James had said, his voice laced with bitterness.
"You fought publicly last month. Witnesses say Micha slapped you," Carter pointed out, his eyes narrowing.
"She slapped me, yeah. I didn't even fight back. I walked away. That's what you do when you're trying to move on, right? Walk away."
"And yet, you didn't," Carter had countered. "You were seen near her apartment some days before the night of her murder."
James had leaned forward then, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I didn't kill her, Detective. But I know someone who might've wanted to."
---
Kyro, Micha's friend, had appeared shaken. His hands trembled as he sipped water from a plastic cup.
"She was one of my best friends in the group," Kyro said. "Smart, driven, reliable. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her."
"But?" Carter pressed, sensing hesitation.
Kyro hesitated, then sighed. "She… she mentioned feeling watched recently. Said someone was following her home from school. I told her to report it, but I don't think she ever did."
"Did she mention who?"
"No. She said it was just a feeling."
---
Alison, Micha's best friend, was visibly distraught, tears streaming down her face throughout the interview.
"She was… she was my sister in everything but blood," Alison choked out. "I can't believe she's gone."
"Alison, did Micha mention any threats or concerns to you? Anything unusual?"
Alison nodded, wiping her tears. "There was this guy at the bar we go to sometimes. Creepy. Always staring at her. She said he followed her once, but she thought he'd lost interest after she told him off. Also, she was scared of Marshal. She wronged her big time, and she was scared of confrontation."
"Did you get a name?"
"No. Just that he had a scar on his left cheek."
---
Carter exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Each suspect had a plausible alibi, but cracks lingered in their stories. Amber's anxious glances. James' cryptic warning. Kyro's mention of a stalker. Alison's recount of the scarred man. Marshal's nervous demeanor.
He stood, pacing the room. There had to be something connecting these threads. Micha's apartment. Her relationships. Her fears, Zade Watson.
Zade Watson.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. A junior officer entered, holding a clear evidence bag.
"Detective, we found this in a dumpster near Micha's hostel. It's a glove. Bloodstains match the victim."
Carter's heart quickened. A clue. Finally.
"Get it to the lab. I want results ASAP."
The officer nodded and left. Carter returned to his desk, staring at the board covered in photos and notes.
"Micha," he murmured, "who were you afraid of? And why didn't you tell anyone?"
It was time to dig deeper. Someone was lying, and Carter was determined to unravel the truth.
***********************************************
Detective Carter stood in the dimly lit evidence room, his hands gripping the edge of the steel table. Spread before him were photos, lab reports, and crime scene notes. His gaze fixed on a single item in an evidence bag—a crumpled latex glove.
The glove had been discovered in a trash bin, mere blocks from the hostel where Micha Kornet's body had been found, in her room. The medical examiner confirmed it had traces of Micha's blood inside. Yet, the glove had revealed no fingerprints.
"No prints. Not even partials," Carter muttered under his breath. It didn't sit right with him. Someone who took the time to wear gloves was meticulous. And meticulous criminals rarely made mistakes.
His partner, Detective Lane walked in, her face buried in a report. "Forensics came back with something," she said, placing a file on the table.
Carter arched an eyebrow. "Please tell me they found something useful."
Lane flipped the folder open, revealing a microscopic photo. "A strand of blonde hair. It was stuck to the inside of the glove."
Carter leaned closer, studying the image. The hair was pristine, its DNA profile already processed and labeled. It didn't match Micha's—her hair was auburn.
"We ran it through the database. No hits," Lane continued. "Whoever it belongs to has never been arrested or entered into the system."
Carter straightened, his mind churning. The glove had been disposed of with surgical precision—clean, deliberate, with no obvious clues. And yet, this single strand of hair felt like a breadcrumb leading them to their ghostly perpetrator.
"Blonde hair," he repeated, his tone skeptical. "Could be a coincidence. A lot of people handle trash bags."
Lane nodded. "True, but what if it's not? It's the only thing we have tying someone directly to the glove. No prints, no fibers, nothing else. Just this."
He began pacing, his boots clicking on the tile floor. The case had been a labyrinth of dead ends and misdirections. Micha's murder wasn't a random act—it was personal. But without a clear motive or suspect, they were grasping at straws.
"Let's assume the hair belongs to the killer," Carter said, stopping mid-step. "That means whoever did this either didn't notice it or didn't think it would matter."
"Or they're confident we'll never connect it to them," Lane offered.
Carter's jaw tightened. The idea of a killer taunting them, thinking they were untouchable, set his teeth on edge. He glanced at the board where Micha's photo was pinned, surrounded by timelines, sketches, and witness statements.
"Do we know anyone close to Micha who's blonde?" Carter asked.
Lane shook her head. "Not off the top of my head. Most of her inner circle had dark hair. But we should double-check."
"Double-check everyone," Carter ordered, grabbing his jacket. "Friends, classmates, even her barista. If someone blonde crossed her path recently, I want to know."
Lane raised an eyebrow. "You think it's someone she knew?"
"I think whoever killed Micha wanted it to look like they didn't know her," Carter replied. "But people make mistakes. Even smart ones."
Lane smirked. "And you're betting on this hair being their mistake?"
Carter gave her a grim nod. "A single strand might be all we need to unravel this."
As Lane headed off to run background checks, Carter remained in the evidence room, staring at the glove. The sterile latex mocked him, whispering its secrets just out of reach. Somewhere, someone was waiting for him to fail, to let Micha's case join the countless unsolved ones collecting dust.
But Carter wasn't about to give them the satisfaction.
The hair was a thread, and he intended to pull it until the entire web came crashing down.