The following day, I put my search on hold.
I drove to the Cove Hotel, only to hit a wall of traffic at the main junction. Cars barely crawled forward, the sounds of impatient horns layering over each other. I checked the clock. Thirty minutes wasted.
A group of kids, maybe fifteen years old, weaved through the gridlock, selling newspapers. One approached my window, holding out a copy with ink-smudged fingers. I handed over fifty cents and took it, skimming through the pages.
And there she was.
A slightly edited version of Cassandra's mugshot stared back at me. The shadows softened, the contrast adjusted—subtle tweaks, just enough to make her infamous face more palatable.
"Her again?" I muttered, exhaling through my nose.
Beside me, Sasha had her arms resting on the window sill, chin propped on her palms. She looked drained, her expression vacant, like she'd mentally checked out of this endless wait.
I flicked to the article. Apparently, Cassandra Cottingham was no longer just America's problem. The Fashion Craze—or Craze Fashion, whatever—had written a feature on her, and the world had taken notice. People in China, Japan, and parts of South Asia were obsessing over her, calling her beauty "rare."
The media had turned her into a spectacle. A woman accused of gruesome crimes, rebranded as some kind of tragic icon. It was ridiculous.
The article went on about how the magazine had just hit record-breaking sales for its latest edition. Controversy sells, after all.
I folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the dashboard.
Sasha glanced over, unfolded it, and smirked. "Looks like she's got international fans now."
"Thanks to that damn magazine," I muttered.
I didn't bother picking the paper back up. I already knew how this story went.
I continued driving through the congested streets, the traffic moving at a painfully slow crawl. My fingers tapped against the steering wheel, impatience creeping in. The city was alive with honking horns, restless drivers, and street vendors weaving between cars.
Suspense gnawed at me. As a detective, I was supposed to be calm and collected—unshaken, unreadable. But right now, I just wanted to get there.
Sasha looked uninterested in her seat, absently watching the honking cars and vendors weaving through traffic.
Cove Hotel.
I finally arrived. The hotel was as grand as its reputation promised—polished marble floors, towering glass windows, and a lobby that smelled like money. This wasn't the kind of place that catered to criminals or backroom deals. It was pristine, luxurious, and the only thing illegal here was probably the price of a night's stay.
I parked, stepped out, and made my way inside. The air-conditioning hit instantly, crisp and cool against my skin. The lobby buzzed with quiet efficiency—suit-clad guests, bellboys moving luggage, and front desk staff operating like clockwork.
I approached the reception desk and flashed my police ID. The woman behind the counter—Zara Sinclair, according to her name tag—froze for a second. She wasn't guilty, just startled. That was normal. Most people tensed up when faced with law enforcement, even if they had nothing to hide.
Her eyes flicked to my ID, and she hesitated before repeating the words aloud, almost to herself. "Homicide Bureau."
I watched her closely. Red lipstick, slightly overlined. Her lips twitched like she wasn't sure if she should smile or be worried.
"I-I'm sorry, sir," she stammered, dropping her gaze. "I just started here last month."
I shifted my attention to the other receptionist—a woman with sharper features and the confidence of someone who knew this hotel inside and out. She was already looking at me, calm and composed.
I glanced at her badge. Miss Cartland.
"Hello, Miss Cartland," I said.
I leaned against the reception desk and gazed straight at her, she looked awkward and blushed slightly avoiding my charming face. I could feel Sasha's intense glare settling on me. It was not my fault that my Hollywood level charm could make any woman nervous and stutter a word or two.
"How can I help you, Mr. Hoffman?" Miss Cartland asked smoothly.
I tilted my head slightly. "I need some information about an employee—Katherine Smith. Could you cooperate?"
"Katherine?" she repeated, her expression unreadable.
"Yes, Katherine Smith to be exact."
Sasha squinted slightly, tilting her head as she studied Miss Cartland's expression. The receptionist, ever the professional, held her polite smile—calm, composed, not a flicker of discomfort on her face. But after a few seconds of silence, she did something unexpected.
She smiled back at Sasha.
Not just any smile. A knowing one.
Sasha returned it, slow and deliberate, as if acknowledging something I wasn't privy to.
I had no idea what unspoken exchange had just taken place between them. A silent assessment? A test of confidence?
Or—more absurdly—some kind of battle.
Perhaps, deep down, they were fighting for me. Measuring each other up, weighing their chances. A silent war over my undeniable charm.
Who could blame them? Any woman would be weak at the knees for me. It was practically a law of nature.
But before I could bask in my own magnificence, Sasha shot me a sidelong glance. The kind that said she could read my thoughts.
I cleared my throat. "So, about Katherine Smith..."