LANCE'S POV:
The guest room door was still shut.
I could hear the faintest sound of her sobbing through the wall, low, broken, like she was trying her best to muffle it.
She hadn't left the room since i showed it to her last night, not even for breakfast.
I didn't blame her.
I made coffee anyway.
Poured two cups.
Left one on the console table outside her door and quietly whispered, "It's here if you need it."
She didn't reply.
It was nearing noon when i sat down in front of my laptop, fingers poised above the keyboard, staring at the blank search bar.
I wasn't sure why i felt compelled to get involved this deeply.
Maybe it was the look in her eyes last night. That same look i've seen too often in the courtroom, someone begging you to believe them when no one else does.
Maybe it was more than that.
Luis Padilla's name was everywhere—Twitter threads, online tabloids, Reddit conspiracies. Everyone had an opinion. No one had answers.
And Aurora… she was trending for all the wrong reasons.
I exhaled, typed in Luis Padilla death toxicology report, and pressed enter.
Nothing official. Just speculative articles, some claiming overdose, others whispering foul play.
The only consistent detail was the party itself, actors, alcohol, loud music, and a blurred video of Luis exiting a private room… hours before he was found unresponsive.
I clicked on the grainy footage. Paused. Played again.
He looked normal. Laughing. Arms draped over someone's shoulder, someone whose face was just out of frame. My jaw tightened.
The video timestamp? 1:08 a.m.
Luis was found dead at 4:17 a.m. in the VIP suite.
No known enemies, no history of drug abuse, no personal scandals.
Clean.
Too clean.
And that bothered me.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
This is Officer Manuel Rivera from the NBI. We'd like to invite your client Ms. Aurora Zobel for further questioning regarding the events at the party. Tomorrow, 10 a.m. at the headquarters.
Client.
I stared at the word for a long time before replying:
Understood. I'll be there with her.
"Lance?"
Her voice was so soft i barely heard it.
I turned.
She stood by the guest room door, eyes puffy, lips trembling.
Her frame looked even smaller in my oversized hoodie.
She clutched the coffee cup in her hands like it was a shield.
"They want me to go again, don't they?" she whispered.
I nodded. "Tomorrow."
She closed her eyes, nodded slowly, then opened them again, this time with something close to fear. "Will they arrest me?"
"No." I walked toward her. "But i'll be there, okay? You won't go alone."
Her throat bobbed. "Even you sound like you're not sure."
"I'm sure of what i've seen," I said gently. "And what i've seen is someone who's scared, confused, and grieving, not someone who could've done this."
Her lower lip quivered again.
"Thank you," she whispered.
We stood there, quiet.
I didn't push her to eat.
I didn't ask more.
She returned to the guest room eventually, door slightly ajar this time.
When she fell asleep, I dug again.
This time, I searched up the guest list.
Most names were blurred out by management, but a few leaked, celebrity guests, influencers, some private investors.
I cross-referenced them with their tagged posts from the party.
And then i saw it.
A blurry Instagram story posted by someone named KarmaKells. Background noise, people dancing and just for a split second, Luis walking down a hallway toward the private suites.
Behind him? A man in a gray suit with a peculiar tattoo peeking from under his collar.
I squinted. Zoomed.
It wasn't clear.
But something about it didn't sit right with me.
I did a reverse image search of the tattoo's design and found it linked to a private security firm, one previously investigated for illegal surveillance and tampering of evidence.
The firm was never convicted.
All charges dropped.
All i could think was: why would someone like that be at a party filled with A-list celebrities?
A heavier question followed: was Luis really the target?
Or was someone else supposed to be?
The next day.
She barely touched her breakfast. But she dressed up black pants, gray blouse, hair tied in a low ponytail. No makeup.
She looked like someone in mourning.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
She nodded.
We left through the parking basement, my building manager was smart enough to block off media from entering.
But even with the tinted windows, the swarm of cameras and shouting voices outside the exit gate made her flinch.
I kept driving.
At the NBI headquarters, they made her wait outside for a moment while i went in to check the documents.
I heard her talking to herself as i returned, repeating the same sentence like a prayer.
"I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong."
I took her hand. "You won't have to say it alone."
Inside, she was calm, nervous, but composed.
The officers began with their usual: What time did you arrive at the party? Who did you speak with? Did you consume any substances? all of which she answered honestly.
But then came the curveball.
"Miss Zobel, did Luis Padilla have any known enemies? Anyone you recall him arguing with that night?"
She hesitated.
"No. He was… he was excited. Happy, even. He kept thanking people. Hugging everyone."
I stepped in. "Is this relevant to the investigation, or are we implying motive without evidence?"
The officer gave me a look. "We're trying to understand the environment leading to his death."
"Then maybe you should ask why there was a man with known affiliations to tampering investigations walking behind Luis Padilla at 1:30 a.m."
The room fell silent.
Aurora turned to me, confused. "What?"
I placed the printout of the Instagram story on the table. "I'm not accusing. But if you're interested in facts, you might want to start with this man."
They said they'd look into it.
We left the room. I felt her body trembling beside me as we walked to the elevator.
"You did your part," I told her. "You were honest."
"I feel like i'm living someone else's nightmare."
"I know," I said. "But i'm here."
She didn't reply, but when the elevator doors closed, her hand slipped into mine.
-
Back at the condo, she sat on the couch, hugging a pillow tightly.
I returned to the kitchen.
Poured her water.
Set it down.
Her voice broke the silence. "Why are you doing this?"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't even know me. You don't owe me anything. So why?"
I paused. Looked at her.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But i can't stop thinking about it. This case, it doesn't add up. It's like every piece is carefully arranged to make you look guilty, but the story is too neat. Too convenient. And i've seen this before."
"Where?"
"In cases that never made the headlines. Cases where someone was framed so perfectly that even they began to believe they might've done it."
She stared at me, eyes wide. "Do you think i'm being framed?"
"I think you're not crazy to wonder."
And suddenly, she broke down again.
Head buried in her hands.
Her whole body shaking with sobs.
"I just want him back," she whispered. "Luis didn't deserve this. He was one of the good ones."
I moved closer.
Gently, carefully.
Sat beside her.
"I'll find the truth," I said. "I don't care how long it takes."
Her head turned to me slowly. "Even if it means putting yourself at risk?"
I nodded. "Even then."