GLASS BALL EYES

I drove into Beverly Hills, the city gleaming in its usual extravagance. Beside me, Samuel leaned back comfortably, tossing out his usual quirky remarks, his eyes flickering from one mansion to another. Beverly Hills lived up to its reputation—lush landscapes, a near-perfect climate, and the unmistakable air of wealth and exclusivity. Every street seemed to whisper luxury, every turn offering a glimpse of its elite residents and their world of privilege.

Samuel's gaze shifted toward a group of women passing by, dressed in designer outfits that left little to the imagination. "Oh, attractive ladies with their revealing outfits," he quipped, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Your wife is nothing in front of them."

"Anne?" Samuel's grin faltered for a moment.

"She would be thrilled to hear that.,"I added, my tone dry.

He shrugged, the grin returning. "You know, men will be men, after all."

The cool November air hit us, an unexpected chill despite the sun's stubborn attempt to warm the day. The currents were colder than usual, biting through the thin barrier of sunlight that bathed the city. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, my thoughts already drifting to the task ahead. Beverly Hills might be beautiful on the surface, but beneath its polished facade, there were secrets waiting to be uncovered.

As we drove deeper into the heart of Beverly Hills, the streets grew quieter, the noise of the city fading behind gated communities and pristine hedges. The opulence around us was undeniable—Italian villas with sprawling courtyards, modern glass mansions reflecting the sun like jewels, and vintage estates that whispered tales of old money. It was a place where every detail was curated, every flaw concealed.

Samuel glanced at me, sensing the shift in my mood. "You're quiet. Thinking about her?"

I didn't need to ask who he meant. Cassandra Cottingham. The accused. The enigma. The woman whose name had become synonymous with chaos in my life. "Always," I replied, my eyes fixed on the road ahead. "She's the kind you don't forget, even when you try."

Samuel chuckled softly. "No kidding. She's the kind who makes you question everything you thought you knew about people."

"Exactly." I nodded, the weight of the case pressing on my mind. Cassandra wasn't just another suspect. She was a master manipulator, her charm as dangerous as it was irresistible. And somewhere in this city of façades and fantasies, she was hiding the truth.

As I parked the car, a gust of cold wind swept through the trees, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down my spine. Beverly Hills might look perfect, but the air felt different—thicker, heavier. Like the city itself was holding its breath.

Samuel opened his door and stepped out, glancing up at the towering structure before us. "Well, Detective, welcome to Cassandra's territory. Let's see what secrets the queen has left behind."

Sasha Campbell, who had been quiet for most of the trip, suddenly broke her silence. "Forgotten me?" she asked, her voice carrying just enough edge to snap us out of our focus.

I chuckled, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. "How could we forget? Our woman in power."

She didn't respond, barely acknowledging the comment as she opened the car door and stepped out, her boots clicking against the pavement. Focused, determined. That was Sasha—always a step ahead, even when she stayed silent.

Samuel, however, seemed lost in his own world, staring off at something distant only he could see.

I snapped my fingers in front of him. "Stay sharp, Samuel."

He blinked, as if pulled from a fog, and gave a sheepish nod. "Right. Sharp."

Her house was tucked away at the cornermost side of the street, standing apart from the rest, as if it belonged to a different world entirely. Sleek, modern, and cold—just like Cassandra Cottingham herself. It was a structure that commanded attention, yet somehow blended seamlessly into the shadows of Beverly Hills.

Beside it stood a stark contrast: an old mansion, weathered but dignified, its once-grand façade showing the wear of time. It had an air of mystery, the kind of place that had witnessed stories no one dared to tell.

On the front porch, an elderly woman sat in a wicker chair, wrapped in a thick shawl, basking in the November sun. Her face was a map of wrinkles, each line a testament to years of life, and her eyes held a sharpness that hinted she missed nothing. She watched us with quiet curiosity, her gaze steady and unflinching, as if she had been expecting us.

I took a moment to gather myself, flipping through the photographs of the victims in my mind. Their faces stared back at me, haunting and unanswered. And unsolved. Each one had a connection to Cassandra Cottingham—or at least, that was my theory. Whether they were her acquaintances or something more sinister, I hadn't yet decided. But something told me they were all part of the same twisted web.

On the way here, I'd stopped to buy a small basket of fruit. It was a habit of mine—little gestures of kindness, especially for those who seemed to have no one left. Women like Dolly Palmer. She reminded me of the many widows I had met over the years, women left to navigate life alone, their stories often overlooked. It could even help me get some favour.

I approached her porch with the basket in hand, Sasha and Samuel trailing behind me. The morning light painted the street in muted tones, and the cold November air lingered, making each breath visible.

"Good morning, madam," I greeted her with a polite smile, holding out the basket.

Dolly Palmer looked up from her seat, her sharp eyes scanning me for a moment before softening at the sight of the fruit. Her hands, delicate and wrinkled, reached out slowly to accept it.

"Well, aren't you thoughtful," she said, a hint of warmth in her otherwise guarded tone. "Detectives don't usually come bearing gifts."

I smiled. "I've always believed small acts of kindness go a long way."

She gave a faint nod, placing the basket on the small table beside her. "It's been a long time since anyone brought me anything."

"You live alone?" Sasha asked softly, her tone gentle but inquisitive.

Dolly's eyes flickered toward Sasha. "Yes. My husband passed away years ago. It's just me now." She paused, her gaze drifting toward Cassandra's house. "And my memories."

I took a seat on the edge of the porch, careful to stay within the bounds of politeness. "Mrs. Palmer, we appreciate your help earlier. But I have to ask—do you think Cassandra Cottingham could be capable of... violence?"

Dolly's expression darkened, her hands folding in her lap. "Violence?" she repeated, almost as if testing the word. "Cassandra was... complicated. Charming, yes. But there was always something beneath that charm. A coldness. She could make you feel like the most important person in the world... but her eyes never quite matched her smile."

I reached into my bag, retrieving the documents I had printed earlier. Five faces stared back at me—young men, each with their own story that had been brutally cut short. I carefully laid the photographs out in front of Dolly Palmer, watching her closely for any sign of recognition.

"Do you know any of these boys?" I asked, my voice steady but deliberate. "Did any of them look familiar to you?"

Dolly's gaze moved slowly across the photos, her expression neutral at first. Then her eyes stopped, locking onto one face in particular. Noah Dawson. Her eyes flinched, a subtle but telling reaction, and she lingered on his photograph longer than the others.

"This boy..." she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of surprise and something else—unease. "I thought he was her brother. They looked similar. She even claimed he was her brother."

Her words hung in the air like a puzzle piece falling into place. Cassandra Cottingham never mentioned a brother, not in any official record or personal detail I had uncovered.

"At which time did you see them together?" I pressed, leaning in slightly.

Dolly furrowed her brow, thinking. "Maybe half a year ago. I don't know exactly, but it was warm out... late spring, early summer. They came and went a few times. Always late at night."

"Did they seem close?" Sasha asked, her voice gentle but probing.

Dolly nodded slowly. "Yes. But there was something... off. She called him her brother, but they didn't act like family. He looked uneasy around her, like he didn't belong."

A chill ran down my spine. If Noah Dawson wasn't Cassandra's brother, who was he? And why had she brought him here, only for him to end up as one of the victims?

Samuel, standing silently beside me, finally spoke. "Did you hear any arguments between them? Anything unusual?"

Dolly shook her head. "No arguments. Just... quiet. Too quiet. The kind that makes you uneasy."

I glanced at Sasha and Samuel. This was a lead, a thread we needed to pull. Noah Dawson wasn't just a victim—he might have been a key to understanding Cassandra's connection to the others.

"Thank you, Mrs. Palmer," I said, gathering the photographs. "If you remember anything else, please don't hesitate to call."

Dolly watched us as we turned to leave, her eyes lingering on the photograph of Noah Dawson. There was something she wasn't saying, something she was holding back. But for now, we had enough to move forward.

Sasha spoke quietly. "If she claimed Noah as her brother, it means he had significance. We need to find out who he really was."

I nodded. "And what she was hiding behind that lie."