I set the reports down. An old, forgotten case—buried under endless delays, thanks to unnecessary holidays and bureaucratic red tape.
I had too many questions. And I knew she wouldn't answer a single one directly.
She'd twist the conversation, steer it where she wanted. Offer just enough to keep me guessing—never enough to pin her down.
She adjusted the stack of letters in her lap, shifting slightly in her chair. The way she carried herself, even here, made it seem as if she were entertaining me, not the other way around.
"Reports? Again? Of what?" she asked, voice light, almost bored. Then, with a knowing smirk, "I've seen these before. If my memory serves me right, you want something from me. Don't you?"
"Yes, kitty," I said, unfolding the report and sliding it toward her.
She scoffed. "Kitty?" She let the word sit between us, as if weighing how she wanted to react. Finally, she looked at me directly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "I don't recall purring under your touch, detective."
"Don't flatter yourself," I shot back.
Her lips twitched, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached for the report, her fingers ghosting over the edges of the paper before finally flipping it open.
"You're the best surgeon in the room," I continued. "You can understand these reports better than me."
She barely glanced at me before lowering her gaze to the pages.
"Hourglass report?" she murmured. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she leaned back in her chair, one arm draping over the side. "It's just an artifact. What kind of fool would waste time analyzing this?"
Her casual dismissal irritated me, but I knew better than to let her see that.
"You tell me," I said, keeping my voice measured.
She flipped through the pages lazily, barely skimming the contents. Then, after a beat, she let out a small, amused hum.
"You seem invested in this." She tapped the paper with a manicured nail. "But let me save you some time, detective. There's nothing remotely illegal about owning an hourglass."
"Maybe. But what kind of wise woman owns one filled with blood?"
That got her attention.
She stilled, only for a fraction of a second. A blink, a pause too subtle for most people to catch. Then, as if nothing had changed, she returned her focus to the report.
"I bought it at an auction," she said simply.
"Man's blood?" I pressed.
Her gaze flicked up to meet mine. A slow, deliberate motion.
"It was from an auction," she repeated, tone even, but there was something almost mocking in her restraint.
I leaned forward, lacing my fingers together. "What kind of auction, hmm?"
She smiled. A small, amused thing. Like she was indulging me.
"Even I wonder," I continued, "what kind of place sells blood in fancy glassware."
She let out a soft, breathy laugh. "Most probably one you can't afford."
The words dripped with condescension. And then, just to drive it home, she leaned in, the space between us thinning. A game of power.
I held my ground.
"You'd be surprised," I said.
Her lips parted, just slightly, as if she was about to say something else. But instead, she smiled again—this time, with something colder behind it.
Then, she sat back, dismissing me in one fluid motion.
I exhaled through my nose, pressing my fingertips against my lips. She was toying with me. As expected. I slid the hourglass report aside.
Fine. She wanted to dance around the subject? Let her.
Instead, I brought out the next report.
The dead cat.
Let's see how she handled that.
"Do you own a cat?," I asked. My words filled with challenge.
"Do I look like I would own a pet?," she questioned.
"Yes or no.," I said with a sharp crisp at the end.
"No.," was her reply.
I studied her, searching for any shift in her expression—any hesitation, any tell. Nothing. Her face was a portrait of effortless indifference.
"No?" I repeated, tapping my fingers lightly against the table. "Strange. I would've thought a woman like you would enjoy owning something. Controlling it."
She smirked. "You assume too much, detective. Pets are needy. And I prefer things that don't beg."
"Right." I slid the report toward her, watching her eyes flick to the file before she looked back at me, unimpressed. "So you wouldn't mind explaining this, then?"
She didn't touch the report. Didn't even pretend to be curious. She just tilted her head, amusement ghosting her features.
"You're being awfully vague, Hoffman."
"Am I?" I flipped the page open for her, revealing the first photo. The dead cat. Fur matted, lifeless eyes staring into nothing. Dried blood around its delicate throat.
Her reaction was minute—so slight most wouldn't have caught it. But I did. A flicker of something unreadable in her gaze before she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.
"Now you have my attention."
"Good." I leaned in slightly. "Because I have questions."
Her fingers drummed against the table again, slow, thoughtful. Then, with a breath of amusement, she gestured toward the report.
"Then ask, detective."
I did.