Amelia Harlow
The sound of polished shoes echoed across the marble floor, each step sharp and deliberate, cutting through the heavy silence that smothered the Ashford mansion. The officers moved in a tight formation, their presence already unsettling, but at the center of it all walked a man who seemed carved from the very air of authority.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in a dark suit that seemed to absorb the light around him. His face betrayed nothing...no sympathy, no irritation, no hint of warmth. His eyes, however, told another story. They scanned the house the way a hawk scans a field, missing nothing. A flicker at the edge of a carpet. A glint on the chandelier above. The twitch in a hand that clutched too tightly at a glass of water.
"Detective Ethan Cross," he said, his voice steady, low, and unsettlingly calm for a house drowning in grief. He held out his badge with the efficiency of routine, but his focus was already elsewhere. The badge was merely a formality. The man was already working, already piecing together the unspoken words the family thought they had hidden.
He moved deeper into the room. "I am here to investigate the death of Victor Ashford. I expect complete cooperation."
His words did not rise or fall; they were delivered flatly, like the swing of a blade.
Lilith Ashford, her posture as rigid as the portrait-lined walls behind her, gave a curt nod. "We will cooperate, Detective."
It was then that the interrogation began. One by one, the Ashfords were called to him, seated beneath his unwavering gaze. His questions were simple, but each one struck like a chisel against stone, breaking away pieces of carefully constructed façades. He questioned Helena, her trembling hands betraying her. He questioned Marcus, who tried to bury his answers beneath anger. Cordelia, who spoke with composure too fragile to last.
But still, Samuel was absent.
The Ashfords prided themselves on punctuality. It was not just a family habit, but an unspoken rule etched into their daily lives. Meals, gatherings, even grief itself was to be timed with precision. Yet Samuel, one of the most steadfast of them all, had not appeared. No message. No explanation. Only silence.
God alone knew where he was.
When my name was finally called, my heart jolted. My steps toward the detective felt louder than they should have, as if the marble beneath me chose to amplify my nervousness.
And then I looked at him.
Detective Ethan Cross. He was not just tall, he was towering, his presence filling the space as though the air itself bent to him. His skin was sun-darkened, his build undeniably strong, his movements controlled but never stiff. And his eyes—God, those eyes—blue like a storm over the sea, like a depth I could fall into and never emerge from.
For a dangerous moment, my thoughts strayed. I wondered what it would feel like to be seen by him, truly seen, not as a suspect or witness but as a woman. My stomach twisted with shame at the thought, but my gaze clung to his regardless.
"Miss Amelia?" His voice snapped me from my spiraling thoughts.
"Oh—yes, I am here," I stammered, cheeks flushing hot. I had been staring, openly, foolishly.
His stare sharpened, as though he could read every thought I tried to bury. His gaze did not just rest on me, it pierced through me, peeling back layers I did not know how to protect. It was not attraction I felt in that instant—it was exposure. The terrifying sense that my very soul might be dragged from my body by those storm-colored eyes.
He began his questions, steady, relentless. Where was I? What had I seen? What had I heard? I answered them all, my voice even but my heartbeat loud enough that I feared he could hear it. I tried not to look at him, yet I could not look away.
Then, breaking through the suffocating rhythm of question and answer, came a sound.
A soft cry.
"Meowww."
My head turned sharply.
There, padding into the room as though it had always belonged, was an orange cat. Its fur glowed faintly in the dim light, its tail swishing with a casual arrogance.
"A cat?" I whispered under my breath.
But Detective Cross did not appear surprised. Instead, his expression softened, a small crack in the impenetrable armor of his demeanor.
"Mars," he said. His voice, usually iron, melted into something shockingly tender. He bent down, lifting the cat into his arms with ease. "What are you doing here, my girl?" His tone shifted to a playful lilt, a gentle sound utterly unlike the man who had been dissecting lives only moments earlier.
I froze, caught in a ridiculous longing. For one brief instant, I wished I could trade places with that cat, cradled in the strength of his arms, the center of that softened gaze. The thought made me clench my fists until my nails bit into my palms.
The illusion shattered with the sound of hurried footsteps.
Cordelia burst into the room, her usually perfect composure scattered. Her chest heaved, her eyes wide with panic. Her shoes clicked unevenly against the marble as if she had run faster than she ever thought possible.
"What happened?" The words left me before I realized I had spoken.
Cordelia's lips trembled. She tried to speak, but air seemed to choke her. Finally, she forced it out, each word like shattered glass.
"Samuel…"
The name struck the room like a stone thrown into still water. Everyone froze, waiting for her to finish.
"Samuel what?" I pressed, dread curling through my stomach.
Her face twisted, the mask gone entirely now. "Samuel is dead. They found him in a hotel room. His hands… they were separated from his body."
The silence that followed was not silence at all. It was a scream too loud to hear, a weight that crushed the air from my chest.
Detective Ethan's eyes narrowed, not in shock but in calculation. His grip on the cat tightened for a heartbeat before he set it gently down on the floor. The softness was gone from his face, replaced once again by that terrifying stillness.
Samuel Ashford, missing only hours ago, was now another body. Another puzzle. Another secret carved open in blood.
And with his death, the mansion seemed to grow darker, as if the walls themselves understood that whatever nightmare we had entered was far from over.