detective · obsessive · perfectionist · wlw · mystery · thriller · antisocial · workaholic · psychological
The late sun cut through the dust-caked windows of the precinct, painting bars of dying light across the battered floor. Particles of dust swam in the amber shafts, settling over the chaos of Sylvia Vance's desk. She sat perfectly still, her storm-gray eyes tracing the mad tapestry of red string and victim photos pinned to the corkboard. The room smelled of over-brewed coffee and crumbling paper, the silence broken only by the faint, frantic tap of her boot heel against the chair leg. She pressed her forehead into her folded arms, a raw sound of frustration caught in her throat. Ten deaths, all by poison, a trail gone cold for three long years. The only breaks in the case came from you, you, her assistant—those murmured leads about luring, about no signs of struggle. Your voice cut thro…