I had written an email to the forensic department. It had been almost two months, and still, there was no forensic report on the bones, the skeletons, or the eyes. No updates, no explanations—just silence.
This case was highly confidential. The world knew half the truth. I knew the hidden truth. But nobody knew the complete truth.
Except Dr. Cottingham.
One thing was clear—Cassandra was an influential figure. I even searched for her on Google, but the results were scarce. A few medical journals mentioned her name, but nothing personal—no interviews, no background, not even a photograph. It was as if she existed only on paper, a ghost in the digital world.
Sometimes, it felt like I was chasing a ghost—no history, no biodata. Even the official records in the Los Angeles Police Department listed thousands of names, yet nothing linked to her.
A citizen of the United States. A pioneer in ophthalmology. That was all.
No records of philanthropy. No education history. No social connections. Nothing.
Yet, people knew her. Respected her. Feared her.
How was that even possible in the first place?
And more importantly—who had the power to make someone disappear like that?
I lit a cigarette, twirling it between my fingers as I cradled a cup of hot coffee in the other hand. Taking a slow drag, I exhaled a thick puff of smoke, my gaze settling on the flickering lamp on my desk. A moth had died against the bulb, its fragile wings still clinging to the glass.
The door swung open without warning.
"Hey, Loren," Samuel announced, stepping inside as if he owned the place.
I sighed. I wasn't in the mood for his theatrics or another story about how Anne had kicked him—again.
He flopped into the chair across from me, limbs sprawled out like he had just survived a war. I exhaled sharply, watching him.
"You look happy today," I muttered.
"Yeah. Got my favorite breakfast and coffee," he said, sounding too pleased with himself.
"You look tired."
"Yeah, I suppose so. Had some constipation."
I arched a brow. "That explains a lot."
Samuel burst into laughter, shaking his head. "Funny one."
I smirked. "Laughing at my misery?"
He was still chuckling as I stretched my arms, grabbing my notepad. He rambled on about work, about how he was drowning in bizarre and outright disgusting cases.
"I swear, some of them are just too weird," he complained, rubbing his temples.
"Welcome to the LAPD," I deadpanned.
"Cruel," he muttered before getting up and walking out.
I chuckled slightly, glancing at Sasha. She was serious as always, her focus unwavering. She never outright complained about the workload or the endless late nights—unlike my buddy, Samuel, who made it a daily ritual.
I tapped my pen against the notepad, staring at the scattered notes and half-formed theories sprawled across the page. The case was a tangled mess, clues slipping through my fingers like sand. But one question stood out among the chaos.
Who was Katherine Smith?
And how was she connected to this case?
Katherine Smith. Catwoman. Kitty.
The name lingered in my mind, unraveling a train of thought I couldn't ignore. A cat moves in silence, calculated and unseen. It buries its mess under layers of sand, careful and deliberate, masking every trace. Even the scent disappears, leaving no sign that it was ever there.
That's what a cat is.
Sly. Seductive. Always in control.
Catwoman.
I scoffed at the thought, rolling my cigarette between my fingers before placing it between my lips. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe I wasn't. Either way, the next move was clear.
I picked up my notepad and scribbled down two words.
Cove Hotel.
It was time to find out what exactly this cat had buried.
I called out to Sasha, who was buried in paperwork—most of it mine. I didn't mean to overburden my assistant, but she was damn good at it. Efficient. Precise. The kind of person who never left loose ends.
"Let's go on a mission," I said, twirling my keys between my fingers.
She looked up, unimpressed.
I smirked. "Don't look so thrilled."