"It even seemed like she was juggling two jobs just to make ends meet. Most probably, the thugs wouldn't leave her alone. That's just one of my theories," Miss Cartland added, her voice thoughtful.
I leaned in slightly. "Did she have kids?"
Cartland shook her head. "She never mentioned any."
"She sounds like an interesting woman," I mused, scanning Cartland's expression for any flicker of something deeper.
"Yes," she agreed. "The kind of person who carried a certain mystery with her. Always alone, never letting anyone close enough to really know her."
I considered her words. Perhaps she was referring to the weight of her husband's debt, a burden that had isolated Katherine in ways no one fully understood. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Cartland turned to her computer, typing in quick, practiced motions before printing out a document. She slid the sheet across the desk toward me.
Name: Katherine Smith
Age: 34
Height: 5'8"
Occupation: Receptionist
I picked up the paper, eyes narrowing as I studied the photo attached. A green-eyed brunette stared back at me. Her gaze had a depth to it—dark forest green, a color that pulled you in like the woods at twilight, where the trees swallowed the last traces of daylight.
Not Cassandra.
I had the printed proof in my hands.
A Classic murder mystery.
"She's beautiful," I murmured, almost to myself.
Cartland nodded. "Her eyes… they were something else. The kind of rare sight you don't forget."
I tapped the paper against the desk, my mind already moving. A woman with a past wrapped in debts, working herself to exhaustion, disappearing without a trace.
Something didn't add up.
And I intended to find out what.
Sasha shifted beside me, her gaze flicking from the printout to me. "Green eyes aren't that rare," she muttered under her breath.
I ignored her.
Miss Cartland leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "She had this way of looking at people, you know? Like she was always thinking something she'd never say out loud. People liked her, but no one really knew her."
A woman with a dead husband, a gambling debt, and a job she was juggling just to survive. A woman who saved aggressively, deleted messages, and disappeared without a word.
Yeah, Katherine Smith was becoming more interesting by the second.
I tapped the sheet against the desk, glancing back up at Cartland. "You said she worked late shifts a lot. Ever mention a second job?"
"Not directly," she said. "But she was always exhausted. I used to joke about how she looked like she'd run a marathon before coming in, and she'd just smile it off."
Sasha frowned. "Did she ever come in with bruises? Anything suspicious?"
Cartland hesitated. "Not that I saw, but… sometimes she walked like she was sore. Like her muscles ached."
I exchanged a glance with Sasha.
That didn't sound like someone just pulling extra shifts at a diner.
I folded the sheet and tucked it into my coat. "Alright," I said, "I think that's all for now."
Cartland nodded, but her expression was still troubled. "If you find her… tell her we were worried."
"Sure," I said, though I wasn't sure if I meant it.
She had been helpful, infact very helpful. She was compsed and professional.
I turned to leave, Sasha following close behind. As we stepped out into the hotel lobby, she muttered, "So? What's the theory?"
I let out a breath, glancing at the printout again.
"Katherine Smith was running from something," I said. "The only question is—did she make it?"
Sasha's lips pressed into a thin line.
Somehow, we both doubted it.
I stepped out of the hotel, the sun hanging low in the sky, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Just as I adjusted my jacket, a figure approached—hands buried in the pockets of a hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched. His gaze flicked past me, landing directly on Sasha.
I recognized him from a very brief encounter.
He hesitated before flashing an uneasy smile. I extended my hand, and he hesitated again before accepting it, his grip damp with sweat. His hoodie cap shadowed most of his face, leaving only the glint of nervous eyes visible beneath.
"Ah—" Sasha's voice hit an unusually high pitch. "Sir Hoffman, uh, this is my boyfriend, Joel Bennett."
"Nice to meet you, Joel." I shook his hand, noting how clammy it was.
Sasha laughed—too hard. "He's a student at UCLA. I know he looks like he's lost in a cloud, but trust me, his skills aren't."
"Physics major," Joel added, his voice soft but steady.
I gave his shoulder a light thump. "Tough guy."
He forced a smile, though I caught the subtle way he adjusted his posture, as if trying to stand taller.
Before the awkwardness could settle any further, my phone rang. An unknown number.
"This is a very important call," I announced, seizing the chance to step away. "Gotta take this."
The moment I answered, an automated voice chirped in my ear: Congratulations! You have won a—
I hung up.
From a short distance, I watched Sasha and Joel, noting how she fidgeted with her sleeve while he rocked back and forth on his heels. They were wrapped in their own bubble of quiet conversation, exchanging glances, Sasha occasionally biting her lip. Young love. Awkward, unpolished, and completely foreign to me.
That's when I saw her.
Cola.
She stood a few feet away, tangled in a heated argument with an older man. She was draped in silver jewelry, her tiny shorts barely qualifying as clothing, her exposed top shimmering under the streetlights. Her voice rose in sharp, whiny spikes as she threw her arms in exaggerated motions.
I sighed.
Trouble had a way of finding me.