Mark's investigation began immediately. He started with Angela's apartment, still sealed off by police tape. Navigating the cluttered yet hauntingly familiar space, he meticulously examined every detail. The overturned bottle of pills, the crumpled note, the faint traces of tear streaks on her bedside table—each element painted a grim picture. Still, Mark knew better than to trust appearances.
He combed through Angela's phone records, scrutinized her emails, and pored over her social media interactions. He even went into unposted drafts on her accounts, and search histories revealed fragments of her thoughts. Finally, he spoke to Angela's best friend Majesty.
"So Majesty, do you know Angela Meyers?" Mark asked.
Majesty shook her head, tears falling on her beautiful cheeks. "Of course. She was... my best friend."
"Do you think she would do something like taking her own life?" He asked.
"Honestly, I don't know. I mean she seemed distracted, even distant a few days before she died. She didn't want to talk to anyone, even me. I am even angry that she couldn't tell me! I am a bad friend. I couldn't press harder."
Mark's gaze softened as he watched Majesty crumble under the weight of her own guilt. "You're not a bad friend," he said firmly. "People make their own choices, and sometimes they don't share what's truly going on inside. It doesn't mean you failed her."
Majesty sniffled, brushing away her tears. "You don't understand. Angela was strong—she was the one holding everyone else together. I just… I never thought she could feel so lost."
Mark leaned forward, his voice calm but probing. "You mentioned she seemed distracted and distant before she died. Did she say or do anything unusual? Maybe something that stood out?"
Majesty paused, wracking her brain. "There was one thing. A day before... before it happened, she called me late at night. It was strange because she never called that late. She didn't say much, just that she felt overwhelmed. She talked about feeling like she was trapped, like she couldn't breathe. I told her to come over, but she said she'd be fine. That she just needed some rest."
"Did she mention why she felt that way?" Mark asked, his pen poised over his notebook.
"She didn't go into detail," Majesty replied, her voice breaking. "But she kept saying she didn't want to disappoint anyone. I thought I would go see her the next day. But it was too late."
Mark nodded, his expression a mix of empathy and determination. "Thank you, Majesty. I know this is difficult, but your honesty helps more than you realize. You couldn't have known what she was going through—not entirely. Don't blame yourself."
Majesty wiped her tears, her lips trembling as she tried to muster a small, sad smile. "I just wish I had done more. Maybe if I'd gone to her that night... maybe she'd still be here."
Mark didn't press further, knowing her guilt was already unbearable. "You did what you could. I'll take my leave."
Majesty nodded, her shoulders slumping as she whispered, "Thank you, Mark. Please... find out what really happened."
Mark stood slowly and slid his notebook into his coat pocket. "I'll do everything I can," he assured her, offering a small, firm nod.
One night, after hours of poring over evidence, Mark leaned back in his chair. Every lead, every clue, pointed to the same heartbreaking conclusion: "Angela had indeed taken her own life." There was no sign of foul play, no mysterious figures lurking in the shadows. Her struggle had been internal, hidden behind a carefully curated smile.
Reluctantly, Mark prepared himself to deliver the news to Lyan. He drove to Lyan's villa, and arrived in just an hour. Parking his car, he hesitated for a moment, staring at the glowing windows of the house. Lyan deserved the truth, no matter how painful it might be.
Lyan opened the door before Mark could knock, his face a mix of hope and dread. "Mark," he said, stepping aside to let him in. "Did you find anything? Please tell me you found something."
Mark entered, his expression grave. "Let's sit," he said, gesturing to the living room. Lyan hesitated, then followed, his movements stiff with tension.
Once they were seated, Mark began carefully. "Lyan, I've gone through everything—her apartment, her records, her life. I'm so sorry, but Angela's death wasn't caused by anyone else. She... she made that choice herself."
Lyan's face fell, his eyes widening in disbelief. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No, Mark. You're wrong. She wouldn't do that. She was happy. She was fine."
Mark sighed, leaning forward. "I know it's hard to accept. But everything I found supports it. The note, the pills, her search history... She'd been researching ways to cope with stress and even looking up support groups. But something must have overwhelmed her in the end."
"You don't understand," Lyan said, his voice cracking. "She was stronger than this. She wouldn't leave me. Not like that."
Mark's expression softened. "Lyan, strength isn't always enough. Sometimes, people carry burdens they think they have to bear alone. It doesn't mean she didn't love you. It means she was hurting in ways she couldn't share."
Tears welled in Lyan's eyes, spilling over as he buried his face in his hands. The room was silent except for the sound of his muffled sobs. Mark remained still, giving him the space to process.
After a while, Lyan looked up, his eyes red and swollen. "Why didn't she tell me?" he whispered. "Why didn't she let me help her?"
Mark shook his head. "Sometimes, the people who seem the strongest are the ones struggling the most. Angela loved you, Lyan. That much is clear. But love doesn't always conquer the darkness."
Lyan nodded slowly, the weight of Mark's words settling over him. The truth was a jagged pill to swallow, but it was the only closure he would get. As he sat there, clutching the velvet box he never got to give her. "Thank you, Mark. You can leave now."
All he wanted now was to be alone and drink his pain away.
Mark hesitated, but he knew when to step back. "If you need anything, you know where to find me," he said quietly before leaving.
The click of the closing door echoed in the silence. Alone once more, Lyan stared at the bottle of whiskey on the table. It was half-empty, a testament to the nights he'd spent trying to drown the ache in his chest. Without thinking, he reached for it, pouring another glass and swallowing it down in a single, burning gulp.
The alcohol numbed the edges of his grief, but it couldn't fill the void Angela had left. Her laughter still echoed in his mind, her smile lingering like a ghost. "Why?" he muttered to the empty room, his voice cracking. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The velvet box sat on the coffee table, its contents mocking him with dreams that would never be realized. He picked it up, opening it to reveal the ring he'd chosen for her. A perfect circle of gold, symbolizing forever—a forever that had been cruelly cut short.
Just then, he heard a knock on the door. He didn't open at first but when the knocking became too much, he slowly stood up and walked towards the door. Opening, he saw the same cops on his door, "What are you doing here again?"
Detective Souzan stepped forward. "Mr. Chandra, I hope you remember me. Last time we talked, but we have reason to believe that Angela Mayers did not take her life."
Lyan's words stopped for a moment, taking in those words. Just a while ago, Mark told him that Angela had indeed committed suicide. "But now the police were saying otherwise. His mind reeled, struggling to process the shift. "Who should I believe?" he thought.
Lyan swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the doorframe. "What… what are you saying?" he finally managed to ask. "Do you know who did it to her? Because I am not going to forgive them."
Detective Darsa wanted to peek inside and said, "Can we please talk inside?"
Lyan hesitated for a brief moment, then stepped aside, allowing the detectives to enter. The living room was dimly lit, the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table an unspoken testament to his grief.
Detective Souzan's sharp gaze flickered to it but said nothing. Instead, she took a seat across from Lyan while Detective Darsa remained standing, his arms crossed.
"Lyan," Souzan began, her tone softer now, "I know this is difficult. And for your question: No. We don't know the culprit yet, and that is the reason we're here."
Darsa looked Lyan in the eyes and asked, "Can you tell us everything you know about Angela? Your relationship, her life, her friends. I mean everything."