Felix had gone through the evidence boxes twice.
Officially, he wasn't supposed to have them. Delia Thornhart's death had been ruled accidental -- "an unfortunate combination of prescription medication, alcohol, and untreated hypertension." The case was closed within seventy-two hours, signed off by two senior officials and one very quiet PR rep.
But Felix had pulled strings. He still had a badge, even if it was more ceremonial these days.
And something about the report didn't add up.
He sat now in his apartment, the twins gone for the weekend, the blinds drawn, the overhead light too dim to read by without squinting. He preferred it that way. Easier to think in half-shadow.
He reopened the case file. There. On page four. The medication list included Midazolam. A sedative. Not uncommon, but not Delia's usual. He checked again -- no prescription on file. None in her previous records. The dosage wasn't fatal in itself, but combined with alcohol and her existing cardiac condition...
Too convenient. Too clean.
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his face. His head was starting to ache. He hated these cases. The ones that whispered instead of screamed. The ones where the victim had been a manipulator, and the suspect -- if there was one -- moved like smoke through paper trails.
He looked again at the surveillance stills from Delia's building.
No visitors logged in the 72 hours before her death. Staff records purged. Even her housekeeper had transferred jobs the day after she died.
But something was nagging him.
He reached for a separate folder -- one he'd pulled on instinct, not instruction.
Inside: press clippings, public appearances, and a few low-resolution shots of Delia at charity events. Posed. Plastic.
Then, at the bottom -- one image out of place. A candid. Delia in her rooftop garden, speaking to a woman in black. It was too blurry to make out the second woman's face. But her posture -- Rigid. Precise. Watchful.
He thought of Wednesday. The woman had a way of being unseeable even when standing right in front of you.
He stared at the image for a long time. The timestamp placed it two weeks before Delia's death.
He pulled out his phone and checked the last few texts from Wednesday. Nothing unusual. No direct avoidance. But no transparency either.
He'd known her less than a month. Trusted her even less than that.
But something in him stirred. Not suspicion. Something worse. Recognition.
He wasn't sure whether she was the answer -- or the next question. He shut the folder gently. Tomorrow, he'd ask her directly. Tonight, he poured a drink. Sat with the photo. Let it haunt him. Because somewhere between the blurred lines of Delia's death and that nameless figure in black --
Was the shape of something he wasn't ready to name.