In a dim, airless room, a metal table
stood solemnly at its center. From a meter above, a single lamp swayed, casting trembling halos of yellow light that deepened the unease saturating the air. Two wooden chairs faced each other — their joints creaking softly, like whispers of tension between the living and the guilty.
Detective Ethan leaned back, the wan light chiseling sharp shadows across his face.
He folded his arms, his unwavering gaze dissecting every twitch, every blink, every uneven breath from Liam, who sat opposite him, drenched in fear and fatigue.
Silence clung to the room for minutes that felt like hours. Ethan allowed it to linger — silence, after all, could be more torturous than words.
Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice steady but cold.
"Mr. Liam Rodam, you've already confirmed that you're Mrs. Rosalina's son. Yet, as far as I know, you live alone, quite a distance from her. So tell me — what brought you to the crime scene at eight o'clock that evening?"
Liam's eyes were vacant, disbelief etched into his features — still unable to process the loss of the only person who had ever stayed. His pulse raced beneath his skin, sweat clinging to his palms despite the chill. He raised his head slowly, lips trembling.
"I... I... I was visiting my mother," he stammered. "I always visited her at the end of every week."
Ethan hummed, feigning understanding, though his sharp eyes caught every flicker of anxiety, every fragment of grief.
"And when you arrived — did you notice anything unusual?"
Liam shook his head, voice breaking under the weight of memory.
"My mother never changed. She called me every day, always checking on me — 'Did you get home safe? Did you eat properly?' That was her."
Ethan frowned.
Sentiment, not information.
It wasn't the answer he needed.
"Didn't you notice anything strange when you entered the house?"
Liam rubbed his arms for warmth, eyes distant.
"Nothing... except one thing. My mother loved flowers — she always kept them fresh. But this time... the vase on the living room table was full of wilted roses. The petals had scattered, dead.
Ethan decided to tighten the noose. He reached for the file on the table, flipping through the pages as if verifying a fact already known.
"According to forensics, the time of death was 7:30 p.m. — half an hour before you arrived. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
Liam's composure cracked, anger flaring through grief.
"Coincidences happen, don't they? I would never hurt my mother! Instead of wasting time accusing me, why don't you find whoever really did this?"
Ethan said nothing. He'd learned that silence had a way of making the truth surface on its own. Then, in a tone that sliced through the quiet, he said,
"But I never accused you, Mr. Rodam. This is routine. We spoke to the neighbors — no one entered your mother's apartment that night. No one... except you. As her son, surely you understand why that matters."
Liam's eyes lost focus, his breathing shallow. Something in his demeanor unsettled Ethan — it wasn't guilt. It was terror.
Ethan rose slowly, walking toward him. The closer he got, the more Liam recoiled, raising his hands instinctively in defense. Ethan froze mid-step, caught off guard by the sheer panic before him.
"Mr. Rodam... can you hear me? Are you alright?"
Liam's chest heaved violently, his hand trembling toward the desk, gasping for air. Panic. The inhaler.
Ethan turned sharply, shouting through the open door,
"Max! His inhaler — now!"
Max, waiting outside, nearly groaned. This was the fourth attack in less than half an hour. Ethan's sharp glare silenced him — seconds later, the inhaler was thrust into the detective's hand.
Ethan pressed it gently to Liam's lips, releasing the medicine. Gradually, Liam's body relaxed. He leaned back, closing his eyes as oxygen filled his lungs again.
Ethan exhaled, rubbing the tension from his forehead. His voice softened, low with exhaustion.
"You can go for today. That's enough."
Liam rose unsteadily, heading for the door, but Ethan's voice stopped him — colder now, more authoritative.
"Stay away from your mother's apartment. It's under police lockdown. If you want your name cleared, keep your distance."
Liam said nothing. He didn't even nod. The door shut behind him, leaving the room even heavier than before.
Outside, the corridor buzzed with quiet urgency. Max turned to Ethan, disbelief written across his face.
"You just let him go? We barely got anything out of him!"
Ethan's shoulders sagged under invisible weight.
"Did you see his condition, Max? One more question and I'd have been calling an ambulance, not a lawyer."
Max frowned. "So... you don't think he's faking it?"
Ethan shook his head.
"No. And besides, panic attacks don't make someone innocent — but they don't make them killers either. The weapon's still missing, and there were no screams. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."
Max slumped into the chair opposite, muttering, "Then what if it was suicide?"
"Impossible," Ethan replied sharply. "Defensive wounds on her wrists. Seven stab wounds. That's not suicide — that's intent."
Max nodded slowly, his mind piecing together fragments of the puzzle.
"Did you check Liam's medical records?"
"I did," he said. "He's been seeing a psychiatrist — one of the best in California. Dr. Camila Robinson."
Ethan froze. "Camila Robinson?"
"The one and only."
A faint smile curved on Ethan's lips. At last, a thread — one that might unravel everything.
"Interesting. Set me an appointment with her. Let's see who this Dr. Robinson really is."
---
Outside, the city shimmered — a restless sea of light and noise.
Camila sat behind her mahogany desk, the last drop of coffee staining her cup. She leaned back, exhaustion painting her posture, and pressed the intercom.
"Anyone left?" she asked.
"Yes, Dr. Camila," her secretary's voice replied. "Just one more — Mr. Ethan."
Ten minutes to ten. Too late for a patient, too early for what was coming.
Moments later, the door opened. The man who entered was impeccably dressed — black hair slicked back, posture perfectly composed. Camila's eyes followed him, intrigued by the careful precision of his movements.
She smiled faintly, folding her hands.
"So, Detective Ethan... what brings you here tonight?"
He smiled in return, his tone edged with irony.
"I'm here to ask you about the murder of Mrs. Rosalina."
Camila's pupils dilated — just slightly — but enough for a trained observer to notice. Her fingers began to drum lightly on the desk, a steady rhythm she used to keep her pulse in check.