GLASS BALL EYES

I entered the territory of Cassandra's kingdom which was yellow taped.

The garden stretched wide, a quiet, eerie expanse that hinted at both meticulous care and something left to decay. Fruit trees lined the edges—orange, grape, avocado—their branches heavy with ripened fruit. Some oranges clung stubbornly to their branches, while others lay forgotten on the ground, rotting into the soil. The air was cool, thick with the scent of overripe fruit and damp earth.

The sun barely touched this part of the property, its light blocked by the dense canopy. Shadows draped over the trees like a veil, leaving much of the garden in a state of perpetual twilight. This wasn't a place of warmth or growth; it was a kingdom where nature lingered for show, an accessory rather than a life force.

"Look at the fruits. It's all ripe," Sam remarked, his tone light but observant. "I wanna take one or two. The kids will love it. The fruit prices are skyrocketing."

Sasha rolled her eyes, a gesture I was growing used to. Sam always had something odd to say, but it never felt unwelcome—just part of who he was. His humor was a constant, even in places like this.

The fence separating the old woman's mansion from Cassandra's was low, barely a barrier at all. From this angle, everything in Cassandra's garden was visible. It was a curious detail—almost like she didn't care about privacy. Or perhaps, she didn't see the need. The old woman next door was hardly a threat—elderly, fragile, and, of course, defenseless.

I glanced back at the mansion. Its windows, dark and still, seemed to watch over the garden like silent sentinels. This wasn't just a garden—it was Cassandra's territory, a place where secrets could easily be buried.

I spotted a shovel lying on the ground, half-buried in the soil. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and called out, "Sam, catch this."

He turned just in time, snatching the shovel mid-air with practiced ease. He always was a good catch. Back in the day, he'd been an all-rounder in baseball—agile, dependable, the kind of guy you wanted on your team.

"The backyard?" he asked, raising a brow.

I nodded, my attention already shifting elsewhere. Sam might have had his quirks, often acting like the comic relief in tense moments, but I trusted him. He wasn't just a good catchman; he was sharp in his own way, always ready with a move up his sleeve. I had faith he'd handle it.

The porch was huge. She had a mahogany table and chair, it was in oval shop. She must had drank her earl grey tea enjoying the view of this garden. The sun emanated at this part of area. Though, the rays of sunlight blocked most of the area due to trees.

Sasha sat on the chair. Maybe she was fascinated by its design. Rich has rich lifestyle.

Cassandra's mansion was a study in contrast—a seamless blend of modern sophistication and subtle eccentricity. From the outside, it looked like a pristine white castle, but inside, it was a world of carefully curated minimalism.

The entryway greeted visitors with polished ceramic floors, so immaculately white they seemed to reflect everything around them. Walls were adorned with modern paintings—abstracts in muted tones, each one carefully chosen, each telling a story that hinted at a deeper meaning. Yet, the paintings were the only loud feature in an otherwise hushed space.

The paintings screamed their presence, a stark contrast to the lifeless elegance of the home. They didn't just decorate the walls; they dominated them, each stroke of color telling a story of chaos hidden beneath the calm.

Sasha looked at the paintings keenly. She was clearly captivated by it.

The lighting was soft and strategic, creating a calming yet eerie ambiance.

But despite the house's elegance, something felt off. It was too quiet, too sterile, as if life itself had been drained from it. Every room was pristine, but there were no personal touches—no family photos, no trinkets, nothing to indicate the person who lived there.

It had no homely touch.

On my first encounter, everything happened so fast—Cassandra's arrest, the damning evidence, the lifeless bodies. It was a whirlwind of chaos that left little room for reflection.

But even with solid evidence, things stalled. Legal hoops, bureaucratic delays. Two weeks of waiting, pushing, and arguing. And now, finally, we had the search warrant in hand.

I slipped my gloves on, the latex squeaking against my hands as I adjusted them. I always kept an extra pair in my pocket for situations like this, and I passed one to Sasha without a second thought.

"Smart, sir," she said, a faint smile playing at the corner of her lips as she pulled the gloves on.

I nodded curtly, then stepped toward the staircase, feeling the weight of the moment pressing in. Meanwhile, Sasha made her way toward the kitchen, likely searching for something—anything—that could link Cassandra to the horrors we suspected.

A few minutes passed before I heard Samuel's voice from below, his tone nonchalant. "Found something," he called.

I turned around just as he appeared, carrying a decomposed cat in his hands. His fingers were coated in dark, wet soil, and the smell hit me before I could even take in the sight.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My heart skipped a beat. "It's a cat?" I asked, my voice betraying the confusion that surged through me.

Samuel nodded. "A cat," he confirmed with a nonchalance that made my stomach twist. "The old woman told us about it. Figured you'd want to see it."

I stepped closer, inspecting the animal. It was a tabby, the kind you'd find in any suburban neighborhood. A domestic cat—nothing out of the ordinary. But the longer I looked at it, the more I realized something didn't sit right. Cassandra had expensive tastes. This house, the art, the luxury... this didn't match the image of someone who would own a regular tabby.

And then there was the lack of a collar.

I narrowed my eyes, my suspicion growing. "Why would Cassandra bury a cat here? A tabby, no collar..." The pieces weren't fitting together.

I called out to Sasha, trying to push the unease from my mind. "Can you grab me some plastic?"

A few seconds later, she returned with a polythene bag from the kitchen, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "What is it, sir?" She froze in her tracks when she saw the cat. Her face paled.

"It's a dead cat," I said bluntly, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

Sasha recoiled slightly, clearly shaken by the sight. "But why would she—" she started, her voice trembling.

"I don't know," I muttered, the words more to myself than to anyone else. "But we're going to find out."

Samuel grinned giddily, and I couldn't help but feel more irritated than amused. His antics weren't part of the job. He wasn't here to make jokes or lighten the mood—he was just tagging along with our investigation.

"What's so funny, Sam?" I asked, my voice sharp. I was done with his giddy expression.

"Don't be angry, Loren." He waved a hand dismissively and pulled out a steel cross pendant from his pocket. "Look what I found."

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at his childlike excitement. My irritation slowly faded as I observed the pendant closely. It was simple but striking—a cross that seemed out of place.

"Where did you find this?" I asked, now genuinely curious.

"With the dead kitty," he said, his tone as casual as ever.

I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the pendant in Samuel's hand. It was an old, worn steel cross, simple yet striking. There was something about its weight—its quiet presence—that seemed to carry a hidden significance.

"With the dead kitty, huh?" I repeated, my mind racing to make sense of it. The cross didn't belong to Cassandra, at least not in the sense that it seemed like a piece of her world. It wasn't extravagant enough, and she had a taste for things that stood out. This was... different.

I looked at Samuel, who seemed to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, like a child proud of showing a treasure.

"Where exactly?" I pressed, needing to understand the context. Sam shrugged nonchalantly but his eyes were gleaming with that familiar excitement that meant he'd stumbled upon something.

"Behind the cat. Almost buried. Figured you'd be interested." He paused for a beat before adding, "You think it's hers?"

"I don't know yet." I turned the pendant over in my hand. The metal was old, worn from years of use or neglect, but there were faint marks on it, like it had been gripped tightly over time. Something felt... off. "But I'm starting to think there's more to this than just some random dead cat."

I held the pendant out to her. "This was with the cat," I explained. "You think it means anything?"

She took it carefully, her brow furrowed in concentration. "A cross? It could be just a piece of jewelry. Could be old—nothing special."

But her voice lacked conviction. The way she was holding it told me she wasn't convinced either.

Samuel piped up. "It's not just the cross, though. You know what I'm thinking? Someone's trying to tell us something."

I didn't respond right away. Samuel wasn't wrong, and his observation made my pulse quicken. Was it a message? Was someone trying to guide us, or mislead us?

"Check the engraving," I said, my voice calm but focused.

Sasha squinted at the back of the pendant. After a moment, she tilted it in the light. "There's something here... looks like initials. 'N'..."

I turned the pendant in my hand again, my thoughts spiraling. "N'...." I whispered. The letters rang familiar, but I couldn't place them immediately.

Sasha took a step closer, her gaze sharp. "Could be a person. A name, at least."

"Maybe." I pocketed the pendant. It was a lead, albeit a small one. But something told me it wasn't just a coincidence. In this world of hidden intentions and secrets, it never was.

"Let's get back to the cat," I said, my mind already shifting gears. "We need to figure out how this all fits together."

The cat, the pendant, the house—it was all connected. And Cassandra, whatever game she was playing, was getting more complicated by the minute.