MARBLED EYES

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice smooth and persistent, as if conversation itself were a game she intended to win.

"Mine?" I leaned back, keeping my composure. "I'm not supposed to share personal information with a criminal."

A hint of irritation flickered across my face. She'd been nothing but troublesome during our first encounter—uncooperative, cunning, always one step ahead. This was my subtle way of avenging her, denying her even the simplest satisfaction. I wasn't here to entertain her; I was here to extract information.

"How boring." She sighed, visibly disappointed, her playful demeanor deflating.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the distant hum of the ventilation. She stared at the wall, her expression unreadable.

I hated the quiet. It grated on my nerves, a reminder that I had failed to gain anything from a criminal of her caliber.

"Lorenzo Hoffman," I finally said, breaking the stillness after what felt like an eternity.

Her eyes shifted, and for the first time, they lingered on me with something close to interest.

"Nice name," she murmured, her eyes gliding from my face to my hands. A subtle flick of her gaze, quick but calculated. "So, you're German."

"Yes. My father was German. My mother—Spanish."

She tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a half-smile. Her fingers drummed softly on the cold metal table between us. Each tap echoed in the sterile interrogation room.

"Good genetics," she said, almost to herself, as if cataloging every detail for future use. Her eyes lingered, not on my face this time, but on something just beyond me—as if she saw something I couldn't.

"I was just touching your hair."

I took a step back, keeping the distance between us.

"I wouldn't want you to do that."

Her eyes met mine, unflinching. "You're not the first man to say that to me, Detective. And you won't be the last."

A pause. Her smile returned, softer now, almost genuine. "Some of them regretted it."

I stayed standing, my heart steady but my mind on edge. Her touch wasn't just invasive—it was calculated. She wanted to see how I'd react, how far she could push before I pushed back.

I hated that part of me found it intriguing.

Her nails—red, but chipped—caught my attention again. Faded, like a carefully crafted mask starting to crack.

"That makes me sad," she whispered, her voice a delicate blend of innocence and malice.

I didn't respond. Silence was safer.

Her gaze followed me as I moved back to my chair. "Tell me, Detective…" she began, her voice light, conversational. "Does it bother you?"

I frowned. "Does what bother me?"

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "That you're in here with me, trying to find cracks in my story, while I've already found yours?"

My jaw tightened. She smiled.

"You've made quite a hobby out of outdoing a detective," I said, my tone flat but laced with quiet annoyance. "Or making a mockery of my profession."

"Oh, Lorr, I love making a mockery of all men," she replied, the corners of her mouth curling into a wicked smile. "Not just you."

Lorr? My new nickname. Funny.

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. There was no point in giving her the satisfaction of a reaction.

I left the room briefly, returning with two cups of coffee. Basic human decency. If I was going to sit across from her for hours, I wasn't going to drink alone.

She took the cup with a gracious nod. "Well, thanks," she said, casually crossing her legs, as if she were sitting in a café instead of an interrogation room.

I placed a folded newspaper in front of her, its headline glaring in bold black letters:

"Femme Fatale or Maneater? The Mystery of Cassandra Cottingham."

Her eyes lit up with amusement. She picked it up, letting her fingers glide over the print.

"Quite a fierce name, don't you think?"

She laughed softly, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine. She clearly loved the title.

"Maneater," she repeated, savoring the word. "It has a certain... allure."

Her gaze met mine, sharp and unyielding. "What do you think, Detective? Does it suit me?"

I sipped my coffee, keeping my expression neutral. "It's not my job to think about that."

"Oh, but you do, don't you?" she teased. "Somewhere in that disciplined mind of yours, you wonder if the headlines are true."

I leaned back in my chair. "I don't waste time on speculation."

Her smile deepened, as if she could see right through me. "You'll have to eventually. After all, it's part of your job... figuring out what I really am."

"Why don't you help a little?" I asked, my voice firm, cutting through the tension.

"Why should I?" Her answer was quick, cold, and unapologetic, her gaze unwavering.

I'd spent hours in this room, circling around her with questions, and I had nothing to show for it. No confessions, no cracks in her armor—just her calm defiance and a mocking smile that stayed firmly in place.

The evidence was damning: jars filled with preserved eyeballs, meticulously labeled. Her credentials as an ophthalmologist could have painted her as a researcher. A morbid fascination, perhaps, but nothing explicitly illegal.

But the skulls.

The half-decomposed bodies.

Those were harder to explain away.

"Those bodies weren't part of any medical research," I said, my voice steady, though the frustration beneath it was evident. "And the jars of eyes—"

"Scientific curiosity," she interrupted smoothly, as if discussing a mundane hobby. "You wouldn't understand. It's beyond... your field of expertise."

Her arrogance was palpable, and yet, it was hard to ignore her brilliance. The hospital where she worked wanted her back desperately. Reputable. Respected. Some even called her the best eye surgeon in the world.

A murderer?

Or a misunderstood genius?

"Your hospital is eager to have you back," I said, watching her closely. "Quite the reputation you have. People trust you with their sight."

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Trust is a fragile thing, Detective. It can be given so easily... and taken away just as quickly."

I leaned forward, my eyes locking onto hers. "Trust isn't what's on trial here. It's the bodies. The lives taken."

For the first time, something flickered across her face—amusement? Annoyance? It was hard to tell.

"And yet," she said softly, "you still haven't proven I'm responsible, have you?"

I stayed silent, letting the weight of her words hang in the air.

She smiled again, that same unsettling curve of her lips. "Tell me, Detective… do you ever wonder if you're chasing a ghost?"

"Well, I'll take you off the streets, whatever way possible," I said, my voice firm, cutting through the tension.

She laughed softly, a sound that felt too light for the weight of her crimes. "Go ahead, Lorr."

Something about the way she said it made my skin prickle.

I shouldn't have told her my name.

But it was too late.

Her eyes locked onto mine, and that smile—the one that never quite reached her eyes—lingered just a little longer. She knew something.

And now, she had the upper hand.