I slammed the magazine onto the table, the sharp thud cutting through the air. How could a criminal—a suspected murderer—be treated like some kind of fashion icon?
Sasha's eyes flicked to the glossy cover, confusion gleaming in her gaze.
"This is The Craze fashion line," she murmured. "One of the most renowned fashion magazines in the world. Known for its boldness."
A world-famous magazine. Supporting a suspected criminal.
Because of what?
Her face?
They called her breathtaking.
Not just romanticizing her. Worshipping her.
Why?
Her face.
"So… it's not about a potato bag?" His sarcasm usually had a sharp edge, but right now, it fell flat against the anger simmering in my chest.
"Disappointing, isn't it?" I muttered.
I scrambled on my drawer and found out an report - the dead cat mystery and the hour glass report. I rose up from the table and starred down at Samuel who was still analyzing the magazine for the second round.
I tore out the page where Cassandra's article had been printed—it was near the middle of the magazine. Folding it four times, I tucked it into my pocket.
Sasha looked displeased. It was a brand-new magazine. She had every right to be.
---
The interrogation room was cold. The whole city was colder—unseasonably so, like winter had overstayed its welcome.
Cassandra sat across from me, arms folded, fingers tapping idly against a stack of envelopes and papers. Even in custody, in my department, in my precinct, she carried herself like a queen in her throne room.
I set down the dead cat report. Then the hourglass report. Too many things were moving at once—too fast or too slow. I needed answers.
My gaze drifted to the envelopes in her grasp. She shuffled them deliberately, the soft rustling a calculated lure, an unspoken invitation for me to ask.
And damn it, I did. Involuntarily.
"What are those?"
She lifted an envelope, tilting her head with mock innocence. "Money." A pause. "From… let's keep it a secret."
My lips pressed into a thin line. One brow arched.
She smiled and plucked a letter from the pile. "These, on the other hand, are fan letters. Want to hear what people have to say?"
"No, thanks."
"Very well," she said smoothly, unfolding the paper. "I'll recite them for myself."
World-class doctors like her understood the intricacies of chemistry, physics, the fine mechanics of the human body. But they didn't know a damn thing about reading a room.
"Dear Cassandra," she began, her voice lilting with amusement. "You are the most beautiful woman in the whole world. None of Hollywood's finest could ever reach even a tenth of your beauty. I loved your mugshot—it gives off that man-eater vibe with effortless elegance."
She chuckled. "Signed, punkbitch."
"She's probably just a kid," I muttered, irritation creeping in.
"Who knows?" Cassandra mused. "I am a global sensation now."
"An infamous global sensation," I corrected.
She tilted her head, neither confirming nor denying it. "You're not completely wrong," she admitted. "But you haven't proven me one, have you, Hoffman?"
I ignored her word games, retrieving the folded page from my pocket. I unfolded it carefully, sliding the glossy magazine article across the table for her to see.
Cassandra's chin rested against her palm as she absentmindedly flipped the fan letter in her other hand. But her eyes—her sharp, calculating eyes—fell to the page as if drawn by gravity.
Silence.
Then, slowly, her lips curled into a vicious smile.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
For all her wit, all her deflections, she had nothing to say when faced with her own praise.
Typical narcissist.
"Your fans aren't just kids," I said, arms crossed, watching her expression shift into something truly unhinged.
That smile—wide, eerie—looked like it belonged on the poster of a psychological thriller. Hell, I could already picture the tagline for her biopic: The Female Dahmer.
For once, she didn't respond. Just studied me.
Then, with a faint, almost wistful sigh, she said, "How tragic."
Her fingers drummed lightly against the paper. "I'm perfect for everyone… except myself. Such a shame."