Chapter 8

  When it’s five minutes to five, Sam is surprisingly easy on Ellie. She doesn’t bug her about clearing the plates faster or cleaning up the café properly — instead, she asks Ellie to leave for home early. Sam comments that it’s better for Ellie to go home and take a shower.

  Ellie spends her final hours at the café like a ghost wearing her own skin.

  Her mind keeps wandering, wondering what evidence the detective will show her.

  How could the case have turned out to be a suicide?

  Madam Odette must have done something to tamper with the evidence.

  Ellie is almost certain Madam Odette is involved.

  Sister or not.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Ellie arrives just as the streetlights blink to life.

  The bistro’s sign, Bramble & Brass, flickers faintly now, one of the bulbs sputtering in and out like a breath half-held.

  Inside, the air is warm and smells faintly of charred citrus and something oak-aged. The tables are mostly empty again — this place never feels crowded, as if its existence is just enough for whoever needs to be there.

  And he is.

  Detective Rook sits at a table near the back, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other nursing a half-empty glass.

  He nods at her.

  Ellie walks over and takes a seat.

  Before she can say anything, a waiter approaches with a glass of blue liquid.

  “It’s a Blue Moon,” the detective thanks the waiter and waves him off. “I noticed you only drink from your own bottle. Why not try this? It’s made with gin, blue cura?ao, and…”

  He frowns, trying to recall the rest of the ingredients but gives up, waving his hand dismissively.

  “Never mind that. Just try it.”

  Ellie looks at the drink with a sceptical expression.

  “Thank you for the drink,” she says politely. But no thanks. She knows enough not to say it out loud and hurt his feelings.

  The detective merely shrugs.

  “Can you tell me more about the progress of the case?” Ellie leans forward eagerly. “How did it turn out to be a suicide?”

  The detective’s expression hardens as Ellie bombards him with questions.

  He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers.

  “This,” he says, tapping a paper showing a photograph of a note, “is the short note found near Mr. Todd’s body.”

  The note reads:

  Forgive me. It’s the only way to stop it.

  As Ellie frowns at the words, Detective Rook clears his throat.

  “The paper had no fingerprints. But it’s definitely his handwriting.”

  “But…”

  Ellie’s voice trails off, caught by the implications.

  “And this,” the detective continues, flipping to the next page, which shows photographs from surveillance footage outside Mr. Todd’s unit.

  Ellie’s eyes trace the sequence of images.

  First, footage of an empty hallway.

  Then Mr. Todd, unlocking his door with a key.

  Then, a blackout.

  Then, footage resuming — with an empty corridor, no sign of anyone else.

  “The building CCTV showed Mr. Todd entering his condo alone,” the detective says, tapping the photo of the blackout. “But there’s a three-minute gap of missing footage, as you can see here.”

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  “When the footage resumes, there’s no one else in the hallway,” he adds, crossing his arms as he studies Ellie’s reaction.

  Ellie’s throat feels dry.

  There is evidence pointing to suicide — that much she has to admit.

  But something is off.

  The evidence feels too neat. Too clean.

  As if sensing her doubts, Detective Rook flips to another page — a photograph of a phone screen displaying a Google search history:

  how long to feel effects of sleeping pills

  “This was found on Mr. Todd’s phone,” the detective explains, though Ellie can easily read the photo.

  “He also searched for things related to antidepressants and suicide.”

  Without realising it, Ellie lifts the Blue Moon cocktail and takes a sip.

  The taste unsettles her — a strange mix of fresh, sweet, and faintly bitter, lingering too long on her tongue.

  “What about the white powder?” Ellie asks, tearing her eyes away from the papers on the table.

  Detective Rook neatly gathers the documents, keeping them in order.

  “The Toxicology Unit still needs more time to run tests on it,” he says.

  Ellie sets the Blue Moon down on the table, her fingers tightening around the base of the glass.

  Her voice drops, even though no one is listening to them.

  "Detective Rook, we should go inside. Into Mr. Todd’s house."

  Rook arches an eyebrow.

  "You sure you're up for that?" he says slowly. "You know, it’s not exactly protocol to drag civilians into an investigation, let alone a crime scene."

  "I’m sure."

  Ellie nods before he even finishes.

  The official investigation feels too clean, too easy.

  If she doesn’t see the crime scene for herself, she knows she’ll never stop wondering what they missed.

  Detective Rook leans back, studying her.

  Ellie tries hard to keep her face neutral.

  She doesn’t tell him she doubts the police found everything.

  She doesn’t tell him the evidence feels wrong, stitched together like a patchwork lie.

  She just waits.

  "Alright, Cat," Rook says, letting out a soft, resigned chuckle.

  "You’re just as curious as a cat."

  The way he calls her a curious cat feels sharp.

  Ellie ignores it.

  "We’ll do it. But when I say get out — we get out. No arguments."

  Ellie nods again — too quickly this time.

  This is her only chance.

  Neither of them finishes their drinks — Ellie leaves the Blue Moon untouched, and Rook abandons his glass of whiskey — before he calls for the bill.

  Detective Rook’s car is parked a few doors down. His black sedan hums low as he starts the engine.

  Neither of them speaks during the drive.

  The streets narrow as they move deeper into a quieter neighbourhood.

  Carrion Heights rises ahead, black against the muted sky.

  Rook slows and parks half a block away, killing the engine without a word.

  Ellie follows him down the street.

  She feels it again — that sense of something just out of sight, watching.

  Rook stops in front of the side entrance, glancing around once before pulling a small keycard from his coat.

  Ellie doubts the guard at the main entrance even notices them slipping through.

  "Let’s make it quick," he mutters.

  The lock beeps softly as Rook swipes the card, and the heavy side door creaks open.

  Mr. Todd’s block is farther back, past the mailboxes and an empty security desk.

  As they walk, Ellie can hear Rook’s steady breath, and feel the prickle of something she can’t name.

  Not fear exactly.

  Not familiarity either.

  Just a soft, strange pull in her chest — like a thread brushing against her mind.

  She knows this corridor.

  Or maybe she doesn’t.

  Maybe all condo buildings feel the same, smell the same, hum the same hollow quiet.

  Her fingers brush the wall once, as if her body is searching for something her mind refuses to admit.

  Ahead, Rook glances back at her.

  "You alright?"

  Ellie nods quickly.

  As they round the final corner, she sees it.

  Apartment 02-02.

  Detective Rook unlocks the door with a soft click and pushes it open.

  The condo is small but carefully arranged — a living room that opens into a narrow kitchen, with a hallway stretching farther toward what must be the bedroom.

  A grey leather sofa sits perfectly in the middle of the living room in front of a glass coffee table.

  Ellie can almost imagine how Mr. Todd was found.

  A framed painting hangs above the sofa — a landscape of muted green.

  For a moment, Ellie doesn’t know how to start.

  Just as she lifts her head to look for Rook — to ask him where to begin — a soft sound drifts from the direction of the bedroom.

  Ellie freezes.

  And she can tell — from the way Rook stiffens — that he didn’t expect anyone else to be here either.

  Isn’t this supposed to be a sealed crime scene?

  Only investigators allowed inside?

  But strangely, Rook — who should have full access — looks just as surprised as she feels.

  "There’s someone here," he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to her.

  He turns sharply back toward the door.

  Ellie instinctively takes a half-step after him – wanting to follow, to ask, but not to be left behind alone - but she hesitates.

  He doesn’t glance back

  Then, without waiting for a reply, he slips through the doorway and pulls it closed behind him with a soft, final click.

  Ellie stands frozen.

  "Who’s there?"

  A woman’s voice calls from inside the condo, her footsteps growing closer.