Five people fill the Godlight family mansion’s sunlit, glass-enclosed veranda with their restless presence. Through the panoramic windows, warm morning rays touch the mahogany wood, filtered by the delicate patterns of a white lace tablecloth. The round table is surrounded by three men and two women. No one present wishes to sit down. They do not take a single one of the ten chairs waiting meekly beneath the windows. They don’t remain standing due to an excess of energy; the night before has insatiably drained the mansion’s guests of their strength. They are all so tense that they cannot sit still for a minute.
Some are afraid to show signs of weakness, in spirit or body, before the others. They do not touch the tablecloth, afraid of diminishing its dazzling, clean white color. They exchange nervous glances, suspecting everyone of something, not knowing what has happened or what might yet happen. Such is human nature. It’s better to suspect those around you, looking them in the eye, and be ready for anything, than to wait calmly for an unknown enemy to stab you in the back. No one wants to die by a traitor’s hand. Some fear death so much that they strike first, becoming the traitors themselves. Fear turns people into driven monsters.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” the dark-haired woman with the bob haircut complains impatiently. She is tall, serious, and wears a dark-blue, tailored skirt suit—an exclusive outfit from the country’s leading designer, released only a week ago.
“Did anyone speak to her yesterday?” asks a man in his thirties, wearing a tilted gray hat and a plain, loose suit that hangs on him like a coat rack. He has lost weight recently, and he hasn’t had the money to update his wardrobe. He hopes to gain it back, although his financial situation reduces those hopes to zero.
“I did,” replies the second woman timidly, in a pink dress with a white ribbon sash tied in a neat bow around her slender waist. She is noticeably younger than the first. A young woman of delicate appearance with careful, demure movements. Her shy gaze is unavailable to ordinary passersby.
“After the reception?” the gentleman in the black tuxedo with a satin lapel and a bowtie clarifies. He is young and attractive. His confident appearance and fit physique reveal the prime of his life. His gaze immediately conveys his importance to those around him. It’s immediately obvious who the fairer sex adores. The woman in the pink dress secretly keeps her eyes on him, although she tries to hide her melting look.
“During it,” the young lady whispers cautiously, for the first time taking her eyes off the gentleman. She looks modestly at the lace tablecloth.
“In that case, it’s not interesting,” says the eldest of the guests, disappointed. The man wears a black suit stretched over a small, decades-old belly, with short hair and large receding temples. His thick, dark mustache with a massive sprinkling of gray characterizes the man as a pedant, a rigid personality. Everything must be precise and impeccable. The attendees immediately recognize a German accent, which has organically blended with a person whose appearance leaves no room for reproach or the slightest criticism. The inexpensive suit fits him perfectly. His hat is ideally chosen, yet he always takes it off indoors.
“So what are we supposed to do?” the woman in the dark-blue suit demands, annoyed.
“We wait,” the older gentleman exhales with a heavy bass, stroking his mustache with his left hand, which wears a signet ring on the little finger.
“Wait for what?” the young gentleman in the tuxedo asks nervously.
“For her appearance,” the older man replies calmly.
“Or news of her,” the man with the gray hat adds.
“What kind of news?” the young woman asks quietly.
“Unpleasant news,” the woman in the dark-blue suit says haughtily, lighting a cigarette on a long holder.
“Why unpleasant right away?” the gentleman in the tuxedo objects uncertainly, hoping to calm the young lady, noticing a slight tremor run through her fragile body.
“Do you really think a person like her could come out of this unscathed?” the lady with the cigarette smirks.
“We don’t smoke in this house,” the gentleman in the tuxedo comments.
“Well, in that case, I’m leaving your restricted house,” the lady says, giving those present a scornful glance.
“Allow me to ask, Miss, why are you so certain she didn’t manage to escape?” the older man inquires after her.
“I know her too well,” she says, and the silver ash from the thin cigarette falls onto the expensive carpet.
“How do you know her?” the gentleman in the tuxedo asks, looking at the ash.
“She’s my sister,” the lady says, turning away and leaving the cold phrase behind as she exits the veranda.
“How can she be so cold toward her own sister?” the woman in the pink dress protests.
“Perhaps they’re not related,” the man in the gray hat suggests.
“Or not sisters,” the gentleman in the tuxedo whispers, looking at the back of the smoking lady in the shade of the rose bushes.
“You think she’s lying?” the older man asks suspiciously.
“It doesn’t look like it,” the man in the gray hat replies. “Although, anything is possible. Those kinds of women always make me suspicious.”
“Please, have a seat,” the gentleman in the tuxedo says, pulling one of the chairs from under the window toward the woman in the pink dress.
“Thank you,” the woman whispers with a slight smile.
“It’s true, why are we standing!” the man in gray takes two chairs.
“Thank you,” the older man says gratefully, sitting down near the table.
“And what about you?” the man in the gray hat asks the gentleman in the tuxedo, who walks along the windows, occasionally glancing at the lady who has finished her cigarette. She lights a second one.
“One shouldn’t relax at a moment like this,” the young man answers.
“What are you so tense about?” the man in gray asks.
“The anticipation of the unknown. I have a bad feeling.”
“Premonitions are the mind’s tendency to imagine things that aren’t there,” the older man says with an even bass.
“But I think,” the young lady responds timidly. “Premonitions are the voice of intuition, which knows what destiny has in store for us.”
“Then why don’t all premonitions come true?” the man in the gray hat smirks.
“Our destiny changes,” the woman answers calmly.
“How can it change if we’re doing nothing, just waiting?” the man continues to ask.
“The changes in others’ destinies affect us,” she explains in an even tone.
“In that case, premonitions have a much lower probability of being true than fifty-fifty,” the older man states.
“It seems so,” the woman shrugs her fragile shoulders lightly. “Look,” she says. A policeman is hurriedly approaching the house.
“I told you the news would be bad,” the incoming lady hisses, like a snake, beating the policeman to the door.
“They’ve been found!” the policeman announces, bursting into the house.
“Where is she?” the young gentleman in the tuxedo asks, meeting him.
“They are!” the policeman corrects. The expressions on the faces of those present suddenly change. Only the lady with the smoking cigarette in the holder shows no surprise at the news.
“Who is the second?” the older man asks seriously.
“A second woman,” the policeman corrects again.
“Just let him finish!” the lady with the cigarette holder snaps.
“Who is the second woman?” the gentleman in the tuxedo asks.
“Her identity couldn’t be established,” the policeman reports apologetically. Everyone understands that the unknown woman is either out of her mind or dead.
“Where are they?” the man in the gray hat asks correctly this time.
“In a house on the outskirts of the city,” the policeman finally answers.
“We’re going there!” the older man commands.
“I’m with you!” the young gentleman walks toward the exit.
“No!” the older man stops him. “You stay. And look after the young lady. She needs you more than anyone right now.”
“Very well, of course, I’ll stay,” the gentleman says understandingly. He walks over to the young woman, who is frightened and confused, having jumped up from her chair at the sight of the rushing policeman.
“Thank you,” the girl whispers, trembling with fear.
“And you will come with us,” the older man indicates the lady with the cigarette holder.
“Why?” she asks coldly, concealing her true feelings.
“For identification,” the older man explains seriously.
“Are you suggesting my sister is dead too?” she says, indignant at the assumption.
“We’ll ask the policeman on the way,” the older man opens the door. “Perhaps you can identify the unknown woman as well.”
“He’s fast,” the man in gray remarks, looking at the policeman, who ran to his car almost immediately after reporting the finding, though he hadn’t even said the most important thing: the condition of the lady with the cigarette holder’s sister and the second woman.
“Young unprofessionalism,” the older man observes. “He’s new.” The policeman honks his horn sharply.
“Let’s hurry,” the older man says, ushering the lady toward the car.
The lady in the dark-blue suit glances at the gentleman in the tuxedo and the trembling poor girl beside him. Wrinkling her face in a slight expression of disdain, she leaves the sunlit veranda. The older man nods, puts on his black hat, and follows her out. The man in the gray suit nods, tips his hat, and hurries after the others. The gentleman returns the nod. They watch them go. The car leaves the yard. The butler closes the gates. The accustomed silence returns. This morning is exceptional. The neighborhood is quiet. The local residents are more delighted by incidents than afraid of them.
The woman in the pink dress trembles like a fawn. Fear controls her fragile body. The gentleman is moved by her distress and doesn’t say anything unnecessary. As a man and the master of the house, he’s obligated to remain calm, to be courteous toward the young woman and guest of the house. He escorts the young lady to the living room to leave the veranda, which is entirely saturated with the tension of unknown waiting combined with the vague and incomplete news from the policeman.
The young features of the man’s face, with the thin mustache, said more than the novice himself. It’s a shame the mustache only spoke about the policeman and not the incident. The gentleman asks the kitchen for calming tea for the woman and black tea with milk for himself. The host’s wish is fulfilled immediately. The tea is served. The woman takes a few small sips. The gentleman speaks carefully, trying not to revive the young lady’s anxieties.
“I had the impression the young policeman was familiar to you,” the gentleman remarks, raising his teacup.
“Why would you think that?” the woman asks, slightly surprised.
“You looked at him in a certain way,” he says, trying not to show emotion.
“How so?” she asks, becoming more serious.
“First you looked closely, your eyes widened. Then your gaze returned to its normal state. After that, you didn’t look at him again, which confirms my guesses.”
“You imagined it,” the woman quietly replies, taking another sip of the soothing concoction.
“Perhaps,” the young man whispers, returning to his tea. He feigns indifference, though he knows he isn’t mistaken. They’re acquainted. After all, the policeman, however excited and hurried he was, looked first not at the elder man or his assistant in gray, but at the woman. And not just as a young man looks at a stranger, but as someone looks at a well-known and close person. Only after seeing her gaze fall to the lace tablecloth did he deliver the news. He wonders why she hides her acquaintance with him.
“What do you think,” the woman says, changing the subject, noticing the gentleman’s deep thoughts and suspicious look, “is she alive?”
“Who?” the host clarifies, abruptly returning from his stream of thought.
“The sister of that unpleasant lady,” the woman explains.
“She struck you as unpleasant?” the gentleman smiles faintly.
“Quite,” her thin voice no longer sounds so innocent.
“I don’t know what to think,” the host muses. “You were right, the policeman didn’t report that. And if one sits around trying to guess the true state of things, one can wander into a mental dead end or plunge into a bottomless abyss of conjecture.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the woman agrees. “It’s better to wait for the truth.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t offer you breakfast!” he makes to call the maid.
“And you were right not to,” the woman soothes, putting her hand on his forearm, seating the young master back in his chair.
“You’re not hungry?” the gentleman asks, surprised.
“Worry robs me of my appetite,” the woman explains. “Tea is enough.”
“I understand you perfectly,” the gentleman says supportively. “My appetite also vanishes without a trace when my nervous system is working harder than the rest.”
“How was your evening yesterday?” the woman asks.
“My evening yesterday?” the young man clarifies uncertainly.
“Yes, yesterday’s,” she repeats with a smile, not letting him avoid the question.
“Don’t you remember?” the gentleman smirks. “Everyone was dancing, drinking champagne and whiskey, eating delicacies. I was among the idle crowd.”
“It was a lovely evening. Yet I didn’t see you, although I was in the ballroom the entire time.”
“I left for the balcony during the lottery drawing.”
“Oh yes, the lottery,” the woman says, recalling it.
“Did you catch it?” the gentleman asks calmly.
“Yes, of course,” she replies confidently.
“Tell me quickly, who won?” the gentleman asks excitedly. “Count Saintom? No one else could have won!”
“That’s right, Count Saintom,” the young lady answers, slightly strained.
“Well, I’ll be,” the gentleman’s eyebrows raise slightly. “That Count always has luck. Quite the lucky fellow,” he says with a hint of envy.
“Yes, yesterday was clearly his day,” the woman smiles more easily.
“Please forgive my rudeness,” the host rises from his seat. “Allow me to ask your name. This situation has completely stripped me of my manners.”
“It’s nothing, I forgive you,” the woman says with a condescending smile, offering her right hand. “Arvin, Miss Gwyneth Arvin.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” the gentleman says respectfully. He barely touches his lips to her fragile hand. “Christophe Godlight.”
“A pleasant acquaintance indeed,” Gwyneth reciprocates. “Tell me, Mr. Godlight, why did the waiting for the search results take place at your house? This is your house, isn’t it?” the woman asks.
“Yes, it’s mine,” Christophe replies proprietarily. “I also hosted the reception. Responsibility for the events unfolding partially rests with me.”
“Partially?” Gwyneth repeats.
“I don’t influence the fate of all my guests. I’m expected to provide pleasant music, expensive liquor, exquisite snacks, and worthy company. But I don’t intend to snatch destiny from the hands of my invitees.”
“Do you find this company worthy?” Her tone casts a slight shadow over Christophe’s words.
“Among these people are many good friends of my family for many years.”
“Do you trust everyone?” she asks, as if trying to sow doubt.
“I’ve known every one of them since childhood. All have been welcome in this house since the estate was founded. Each of them has proven their loyalty, sincerity, and reliability over the years, not just with words, but with deeds that helped preserve my family’s estate and fortune.”
“Fortune?” the woman quietly repeats.
“Yes,” Christophe confirms. “Didn’t you know? My family occupies quite a high place on the list of the most revered families in the city.”
“I think I heard,” the woman says, taking a sip of the cooled tea. The young man refreshes her drink, adding hot water. “How will we hear the news?” she changes the subject again.
“Mr. Caines will send a policeman to us.”
“A policeman?” the woman tenses fleetingly.
“Possibly the same one we saw earlier today.”
“Why do you think so?” she asks in a calm voice.
“When something happens, Caines usually sends one of the novices to us.”
“Is Mr. Caines accountable to you?”
“No, he’s a close family friend.”
“A policeman?” the lady in the pink dress doesn’t hide her surprise.
“A freelance detective,” Christophe clarifies. “Caines is only affiliated with the police in an advisory and assistant capacity.”
“And is he allowed to give orders to policemen?”
“A significant contribution to solving crimes opens up possibilities.”
“And what if he requests a mansion with a huge garden and servants?”
“They wouldn’t refuse him anything. However, there’s no need for that. Caines is frugal and modest. If he wanted a luxurious life, he would have spent some of his own money. An amount imperceptible to his fortune.”
“What? He’s rich?” Gwyneth asks, surprised.
“You could say that,” Christophe smiles.
“Is the assistant rich too?” the woman asks.
“No, Mr. Thacker is a regular retired policeman.”
“Retired so early?” the young Miss wonders.
“No, he was dismissed,” the gentleman answers more seriously.
“I thought they didn’t dismiss people from there.”
“They dismiss people in special cases.”
“What kind of special case?” Gwyneth’s interest grows.
“He refused to carry out a death sentence.”
“Was that his direct duty?”
“It was a direct order, and Thacker refused to obey on principle.”
“How did he become Caines’s assistant?”
“The detective was present during the execution, as the man who caught the criminal. Noticing what was happening, he immediately hired Thacker right after the word ‘dismissed’ was pronounced.”
“A sign of kindness and pity?” Gwyneth suggests.
“Nonsense! Thacker has always been and remains one of the best fighters on the side of the law. Caines had been waiting for the right moment to poach him. When Thacker demonstrated his strength of character in refusing to take another person’s life, the detective had no doubts left.”
“And how long have they been investigating crimes together?”
“About three years. Maybe a little more. I don’t remember.” The doorbell breaks the calm, followed immediately by a knock. The butler goes to open it. The door isn’t visible, but a familiar male voice is heard.
“Lieutenant Orvet is here for you,” the butler reports.
“Please invite him into the living room,” Christophe stands up from his chair.
“Forgive me, please,” the young policeman who visited this morning says confidently. He momentarily stumbles upon seeing Miss Arvin.
“You’re just in time,” the host reassures him. “What’s the news?”
“Mr. Godlight,” the policeman says, a little less strongly, “you’re requested to appear at the station.”
“And you weren’t told the reason for the summons?” Christophe asks.
“I can’t say. It’s above my level of secrecy.”
“Then the matter isn’t simple,” Mr. Godlight quietly concludes. “Alright, wait for me in the car. I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Understood! Permission to leave?” the Lieutenant asks in a crisp voice.
“Of course, go ahead.”
“Andrew, please order a car for Miss Arvin and pay for the fare to the location she names.”
“It will be done,” the butler says, walking toward the telephone.
“Thank you for your concern,” the woman says, smiling, pulling her gaze away from the archway where the young policeman had disappeared.
“The host is obliged to care for his guests,” Christophe says, not focusing on the woman’s reaction. “I must apologize. I have to go.”
“Of course, of course,” Gwyneth smiles. The gentleman nods and leaves, abandoning his guest alone to wait for the taxi.
Gwyneth checks to make sure no one in the house is watching her. She quietly gets up. Her first action is to look out the window. Godlight and the policeman drive away. She walks around the living room, examining the furniture from past centuries. With such care, no changes are visible. Everything looks new. Every element, every millimeter of gilt and paint. As she studies the paintings, she approaches the door to Mr. Godlight’s private study. She carefully takes the patterned doorknob. She applies pressure. The door opens slightly, releasing the smell of books and ink. A tall armchair blocks the desk from a curious gaze. She looks at the cabinets crammed with scrolls and books. She walks over to one of them. She takes a scroll.
“Miss Arvin,” the butler addresses her.
“Yes!” the woman whirls around nervously, dropping the newly opened scroll. The sheet rolls up as soon as it touches the floor.
“The taxi is waiting,” Andrew reports.
“Thank you,” the woman says modestly, leaving the study.
“Entry to the study is forbidden to everyone but Mr. Godlight,” the butler says calmly.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gwyneth says, annoyed by the comment.
The butler escorts the woman to the taxi. He remains in the yard to personally ensure Miss Arvin’s departure. The woman gives the driver an address. Tires leave tracks on the gravel center area of the Godlight family estate. Andrew returns to the house when the taxi leaves the boundary of sight. An irritated Gwyneth scratches the seat upholstery with her nails, looking fiercely at the road, clenching her teeth in anger. One wouldn’t guess that such a fragile and delicate-looking woman could harbor so much malice.
They drive to the station via an unfamiliar route. He hasn’t taken this road even once before. A different path, different houses and people. His thoughts change. Earlier, he was contemplating his role in the police investigation; now, he’s engrossed by the strange streets. He watches the passersby. The residents in this part of the city look more tired than those in the well-known districts. He glances at young Orvet and wonders if he was wrong about his acquaintance with Miss Arvin. For Christophe, there’s no doubt. His usual habit of trusting people, even strangers, forces him to question his judgment. They pull up to an unknown house.
“I thought I was invited to the station,” Christophe says, surprised, as he enters the house on the outskirts of the city, the one mentioned in the report about the found women.
“I ordered them to report it that way,” Caines replies, walking up to the young gentleman. “So as not to attract undue attention to the crime scene. You are here without the police chief’s explicit permission. Please don’t disclose the fact that the rules have been violated.”
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Christophe conceals his slight indignation with a trustworthy smile.
“I have to be sure,” Caines insists. “A gentleman’s word, spoken aloud, is worth more than a thought.”
“That’s true,” Christophe agrees. “I give you my word, everything seen and heard here, as well as the fact of my presence, will remain a complete and inviolable secret,” the gentleman vows solemnly.
“Thank you. Let’s proceed,” with a single glance, the detective ushers everyone out of the apartment, even his assistant. This exceptional treatment flatters Christophe and simultaneously puts him on alert.
“Is it really that serious?” Godlight asks in a low voice.
“More than,” the detective says, serious. “Come this way,” he guides the young man into a dark room. The heavy curtains let in practically no sunlight. “Watch your step.”
“What’s here?” Christophe looks at the broken floorboards. He walks behind the detective, stepping only on the surviving sections.
“Someone was looking for something,” Caines concludes.
“In the floor?” the young gentleman clarifies.
“Everywhere,” he indicates the state of the room. “Everything’s been turned over.”
“An insinuation?” Christophe suggests.
“I don’t think so,” Caines sits down. “They found what they wanted. Or the case for it,” he says, pointing to an empty case with an asymmetrically shaped recess. It looks like a distorted pyramid.
“Where are the women you were looking for?” Christophe asks.
“We were looking for one, and we found two.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant.”
“See for yourself,” the detective smoothly opens a wardrobe. Among the evening dresses, a pale girl in a black dress hangs from a yellow belt. She resembles the lady in the blue suit they saw recently. Most likely, her sister.
“And the second one?” the young gentleman gestures for him to close the wardrobe.
“Here,” Caines lifts the blanket on the sofa. A naked woman, tattooed all over her body, lies so quiet and still that he initially mistook her for part of the sofa beneath the cover.
“What did this woman die from?” the gentleman asks, indicating that the blanket can be put back.
“Presumed cardiac arrest.”
“Why is one woman undressed and the other in a dress?”
“We’re finding that out.”
“Show me the body one more time,” Christophe prepares himself.
“Please,” Caines removes the blanket.
“Did you see this?” the young gentleman points to the victim’s neck.
“Yes, I noticed it,” the detective says calmly.
“It’s a very fresh tattoo. Looks unfinished.”
“Yes, most likely,” Caines agrees.
“The shape resembles the recess in the case.”
“So you noticed that too,” the detective smirks.
“It’s hard not to notice. Do you have any hypotheses?”
“I’m hesitant to say anything until I get the forensic results. Otherwise, the whole investigation could go in the wrong direction.”
“You’re right,” Christophe agrees. “Check the new tattoo for any substances.”
“I’ve already arranged it,” Caines reports calmly.
“The woman in the closet,” Christophe turns around. “Simple strangulation?”
“According to the initial signs, yes.”
“How did the sister react?”
“Without emotion or comment. She’s at the station now. You can talk to her.”
“I will,” Christophe agrees. “And did you speak with her?”
“Didn’t have time,” Caines replies while Godlight examines the yellow belt.
“Let’s go,” Christophe exits the room.
They make their way to the station across the entire city. They don’t reach it. Caines’s and Christophe’s car is intercepted a few blocks earlier. Not by criminals, not by police. By friends of the Godlight family. The young man wasn’t mistaken about them. Without noisy signals, they motion for them to follow. They wind through blocks to another part of the city. They arrive at a place unknown to anyone. Everyone knows it, but not from this perspective. The ruins of an old, conventional house. Black with mold, the bricks rise in a mound, like a mountain of bloody remains of a living building, killed for lack of need.
The friends stop behind the brick mound. The detective and Christophe leave the car nearby. The men, Caines’s age, in black tuxedos, approach the rubble. After looking around, one of them pulls on a rope. A door with glued-on pieces of bricks rises from the remains of the house. Caines and Godlight descend silently. They have questions, but no desire to ask them. The door closes. A click turns on the lighting. Four rooms surround a central one. It looks like a normal furnished apartment. The walls are decorated with paintings. The parquet floor is varnished.
“An apartment under the rubble. Excellent idea,” Godlight praises.
“Thank you, my dear Christophe,” the friend says with a smile, shaking his hand.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Godlight says to the detective, shaking the hand of the second friend. “Gentlemen Traviss Bolton and Wallace Shane. Detective Wayne Caines.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the friends extend their hands to the detective.
“Likewise,” Caines looks at them coldly.
“Why are we here?” Christophe asks.
“The station is dangerous right now,” Bolton explains.
“What’s so dangerous there?” Caines asks.
“It’s better if you don’t know yet,” Shane whispers.
“As you say,” Christophe agrees trustingly.
“We need to interrogate the witness,” the detective reminds them.
“Please,” Shane opens a room door. “Miss Marion Huttly.”
“Will you leave us?” Christophe enters, closing the door.
“What’s all this for?” the woman in the dark-blue suit asks.
“Forgive me, we haven’t figured it out ourselves yet,” Godlight admits.
“Perhaps you can help us with that,” Caines says.
“I know no more than you do,” Miss Huttly answers coldly.
“But you know your sister better,” Christophe observes.
“Not a fact,” Marion replies indifferently.
“Why do you say that?” the young gentleman asks, surprised.
“We haven’t seen each other for fifteen years. Since the day Tina ran away from home. We met for the first time yesterday. I’m ready to vouch that I no longer know that girl.”
“In what sense?” Caines clarifies.
“Nothing of my sister remains in her.”
“Do you know the second woman?” the detective asks.
“Gina Rise.”
“How do you know that?” Christophe asks.
“Tina ran away with her.”
“Why did they run away?”
“How do you picture two lovers in modern society? It’s considered wild now, but recall what it was like fifteen years ago. They were about seventeen then.”
“Are you familiar with her tattoos?” Caines asks.
“No. When we last saw each other, her skin was clean and white. These horrible drawings have disfigured her.”
“Why do you think she got them?” Christophe asks.
“To ward off men. Their attention weighs on women like her.”
“Are you familiar with this image?” the gentleman shows a sketch of the fresh tattoo on the victim’s neck.
“Something looks familiar,” Marion examines it closely. “No, I don’t remember.”
“Why did the women return?” Caines continues.
“I don’t know. Certainly not for an inheritance. Our parents left us nothing.”
“Your parents died?”
“Yes, last week.”
“Perhaps Tina came to visit the grave?” Christophe suggests.
“I strongly doubt it,” the woman sneers coldly.
“Why?”
“Our parents despised her lover. Their anger forced Tina to leave home. I go to the cemetery every day. No one has come.”
“And why do you go there so often?” Caines asks.
“Doesn’t that seem a little too personal a question?” Marion snaps.
“Forgive me, Miss Huttly,” Christophe apologizes carefully. “Every detail can play a role.”
“We rarely saw each other. I’m telling my parents what I didn’t get to say while they were alive.”
“For a whole week?” Caines is surprised.
“Another week will be needed. We hadn’t seen each other for fourteen years.”
“Why did you leave home a year after your sister?”
“I got tired of hearing constant mentions of my sister. I was sick of the words and prophecies about Tina’s future and my own life.”
“What did they prophesy, if it’s not a secret?” Christophe asks cautiously.
“The prophecy about my sister came true. And they told me I would never marry, that no one would want someone like me. As for me, it’s already coming true.”
“It was wrong of them to treat you that way,” Christophe says sympathetically. “You’ll still find a dear person in your life.”
“Thank you,” Marion smiles sincerely. “But I don’t believe it.” The woman sheds a tear.
“Believe me,” the young gentleman assures her.
“How much longer will we be here?” the woman asks.
“We need to ask our friends,” Christophe says mysteriously, leaving the room. Caines and Marion follow him out.
“Did you discuss everything so quickly?” Shane asks, surprised.
“Share the secret with us,” Christophe says.
“What secret?” Bolton asks, feigning bewilderment.
“Why are we here and not at the station?”
“Do you know who the second woman is?” Shane asks mysteriously.
“Gina Rise,” the informed Caines replies.
“And do you know this woman’s background?”
“Not the slightest idea,” the young gentleman admits honestly.
“Her real name is Diana Pierce.”
“Pierce?” Caines repeats.
“Yes, you heard correctly,” Bolton confirms.
“Vincent Pierce’s daughter?” Christophe clarifies.
“Exactly. Diana Pierce. The daughter of one of the country’s most influential men.”
“I thought he didn’t have children,” Marion whispers, surprised.
“No one knows about her. Diana is an illegitimate daughter,” Bolton explains.
“Why are we hiding like criminals?” Christophe protests.
“The story could be disastrous for Pierce’s reputation,” Shane explains. “His people will do anything to suppress an unwelcome affair. You’ll be the first to face his wrath.”
“How interesting,” Christophe smirks. “Why us, specifically?”
“You’re investigating the case.”
“That’s our job,” Caines replies.
“There’s one more factor,” Shane says cautiously. “The murder coincided with the reception at the Godlight family house.”
“What are you implying?” Christophe looks at his friends suspiciously.
“Pierce suspects you of organizing the crime. He views the reception as a distraction maneuver,” Bolton explains.
“They think I’m the one who murdered Diana Pierce?” the gentleman clarifies.
“The organizer,” Shane says carefully.
“So we’re hiding here?” Christophe asks, indignant.
“Hiding ourselves and hiding her,” Bolton adds.
“What do you mean?” Caines asks.
“They’re not just looking for you. Tina Huttly is considered the root of all evil. A desire for revenge for his daughter. Pierce might arrange a reprisal against Miss Marion Huttly,” Bolton says, looking mysteriously at the visibly surprised woman.
“So, the murder investigation is taking a back seat to preventing a new one?” Christophe concludes.
“Precisely,” Bolton confirms.
“How did you find this out?” the gentleman asks suspiciously.
“Influential acquaintances suggested it,” Shane smirks. “Your friends, by the way,” he winks at Christophe.
“It’s good to have true friends,” Caines says, pleased.
“Especially if your friends are influential people,” Bolton adds.
“Do you have a plan of action?” young Godlight guesses.
“A rough one,” Shane evades.
“What is it?” Christophe grows wary.
“You’ll stay here until the case is solved or it settles down on its own.”
“We’re going to hide until everyone forgets about it?” Godlight protests.
“They’ll deal with everyone as criminals,” Bolton says quietly.
“And who’ll catch the real murderers?” Christophe asks.
“The police. Do you really have no faith in them?” Shane smirks.
“Do you even believe what you’re saying?” Godlight says skeptically.
“What do you suggest?” Bolton asks more bravely.
“We investigate the murder. No one will stop us,” Christophe assures them.
“Do you expect the whole city to become a wall, shielding you from reality?” Shane asks more seriously.
“I’m not asking anyone for anything for myself. Just allow the woman to stay here until we find the murderers,” Godlight requests of his family friends.
“Let her stay. She won’t bother us,” Bolton permits.
“Did you ask me?” Marion Huttly protests.
“Your life depends on staying inside, and we don’t intend to risk it,” Christophe answers harshly. “As you could tell, things ended quite sadly for your sister. We can’t allow a similar fate for you. You will remain in this hideout.”
“Understand, Christophe,” Bolton says. “We won’t be able to guard you every step of the way.”
“We’re not asking you to. Your job is to keep this woman alive.”
“Where are you going now?” Shane asks.
“We’ll go outside, breathe some fresh air, and decide. I can’t think straight in here,” Christophe answers, looking exhausted. “Are you ready, Caines?”
“We can go,” the detective walks calmly toward the exit.
“Thank you for your help,” Christophe says gratefully. “We’ll take it from here.”
The woman stays in the hideout under the pile of bricks. The remnants of the lives of the people who lived here for many years protect the living person. This is how ancestors care for succeeding generations. Care is often imperceptible, quiet, and full of secrets. People use the benefits inherited without thinking how valuable the ancestors’ gifts are. We also inherit problems, grief, and suffering. The important thing is to learn how to react correctly in time. If you learn to resist, then victories will follow defeats. If you learn how to lose correctly, you will become invincible.
Caines and Godlight step out, glancing around. They must not reveal the hideout. Secrecy is the guarantee of Miss Marion Huttly’s survival. They couldn’t have been followed on the way here, but if ordinary people see them, human curiosity will awaken. Unnecessary rumors will spread, and unwanted visits from uninvited guests will begin. When the news circles the city, the sanctuary will be exposed, and a deadly reprisal will be unavoidable. Time stops under the ruins, but outside, it speeds up. The twilight helps conceal their return to the outside.
They hail a taxi. Shielding their conversation from the driver, they give Christophe’s address. The Godlight family estate is known to everyone in the city. They drive past the house where the women’s bodies were recently found. The detective asks the driver to slow down. A light is visible through the curtain in the window. They get out of the car and dismiss the taxi, paying the fare to the final destination. Young Godlight asks the driver to relay that they won’t be expected at home. They walk over to the house across the street. From here, the apartment windows are clearly visible. There’s no movement. After fifteen minutes, nothing changes.
Young Godlight can’t endure the agonizing wait and walks toward the apartment. Caines hurries after him. On the way, he looks up. The light goes out. A dilemma presents itself. Should he wait downstairs for the apartment’s visitor to run out, or run after Christophe in case of an attack? He can’t leave the young man alone. He races into the entrance. On the stairs, he hears a shout and a thud.
The detective bolts up the stairs. A person in dark clothing knocks him off his feet. Caines tumbles down the steps. He stands up despite the sharp pain. Another dilemma. Chase the person or check on the young gentleman. At his age, he might not catch him. And what would he do if he did? The young man is silent; not a single movement or sound is heard. He climbs the stairs. Godlight lies on the steps near the apartment door. Clearly, the person in dark clothing slammed the door into Christophe as he rushed out. Caines brings Christophe back to consciousness.
“Are you alive?” Caines asks tensely.
“I think so,” Godlight whispers, rubbing his forehead.
“Did the door hit you hard?”
“It didn’t hit me as hard as I hit the wall myself,” he touches the back of his head.
“Get up,” Caines helps the young man to his feet. He peeks into the apartment. He listens. No one. “Let’s go.”
“Do you think we should?” the young man doubts.
“We need to treat the wound.”
“At a crime scene?” Godlight asks, surprised.
“It doesn’t matter where, the main thing is that it doesn’t get worse,” the detective says, entering the apartment confidently.
He turns on the light. They go into the kitchen. Christophe sits on a chair, pressing his hand to the spot where he was hit. He looks at the blood on his hand, and puts it back on the back of his head. The detective searches the cabinets and drawers. There’s no first-aid kit. He picks up a bottle of unfinished whiskey. Without a word, he pulls the young man’s hand away and pours the whiskey on the wound. He barely manages to cover Christophe’s mouth with his other hand. The sound is muffled within him. They can’t make a fuss. After an incident like this, neighbors will report the slightest deviation from the norm.
They each take a gulp. They exchange glances. Only now do they realize that the bottle might have contained poison. Regardless, Christophe has already received a dose through the wound, if there was anything in it. Caines doesn’t spit out the whiskey, realizing the young man is doomed if the drink was poisoned. It’s better for him to die in solidarity than to watch young Godlight die.
They mostly communicate about business. Yet, their friendship has been built over years of mutual understanding. No one else understands Caines as well as young Godlight. And Christophe finds it difficult to find a peer with similar priorities and interests. Everyone is only interested in the receptions at the Godlight family house, the exquisite food, and the unlimited quantity of liquor. Everyone is ready to help with money, to bail him out in case of trouble. The friendship ends there. When young Miss Arvin asked about trusting the people at the reception this morning, he had to prevaricate slightly when speaking of his boundless trust in everyone. The young gentleman has no friends among them.
No ill effects from the whiskey are observed. They each take another gulp. It makes the stress easier to handle. The young man might not have survived if the person who ran out had struck Godlight’s head with any heavy object. They recover themselves. They go into the room where the bodies were found. This morning, there was a complete mess here. Now, everything is neatly put in its place. It’s clean, quiet, as if nothing had happened. Nothing out of the ordinary. And the case for the unusual pyramid is gone. Christophe summons his courage and abruptly opens the wardrobe. Tina Huttly’s body is gone. Only one reminder of the incident remains. A note, rolled into a tube, is threaded through one of the holes in the yellow belt that took the woman’s life.
Godlight calls Caines over. He shows him the finding. The detective carefully removes the note. He always wears gloves in case of unexpected evidence. He unrolls it. It says: “Soon.” In the bottom right corner, the outline of the unusual pyramid is drawn. Caines puts the note back into the belt. If it’s not meant for them, it’s better not to interfere with the recipient. He closes the wardrobe.
The detective runs his hand over the sofa. There are no bodies under the blanket anymore. This is a relief. He checks the sides. A cufflink falls out. They examine it closely. It’s quite expensive. Where did it come from in such a cheap apartment? It’s worth noting that the district is questionable, with housing bordering on poverty. It’s surprising that the apartment’s owners found money for a sofa and a wardrobe. Caines doesn’t return the find to its place. He puts it in his pocket. He’s interested in finding the second one. He looks under the sofa, and peers beneath the worn carpet. There’s nothing else.
They hear a noise in the stairwell. They turn off the light. They wait until silence returns. They go out, closing the door. They leave the crime scene. As they hail a taxi toward the Godlight estate, they consider how dangerous it might be to show up there. They walk on foot to another location. They don’t talk on the way, trying not to attract the attention of passersby. Among them might be someone who knows their voices. They try to walk in the dark. If passersby approach them, they cross to the other side. They keep looking over their shoulders the entire way.
They notice a person following them at an unchanging distance. Caines quietly names a destination. They scatter in different directions, hiding in the courtyards. The person runs after them and gets lost at a fork in the road. He runs in Christophe’s direction. The young gentleman has long been involved in track and field. The pursuer was mistaken. Or perhaps only Godlight is needed.
An hour after walking through the dark back alleys, Christophe reaches the designated place. Caines emerges from the darkness and leads him between the houses. They look around. They enter a door in the middle of a wall. They walk a little further ahead. They enter a room. The door closes. Caines doesn’t move. They stand in the dark. Christophe keeps his questions to himself, waiting for the right moment. The door opens. They hear a hand moving along the wall, feeling the wallpaper. Godlight holds his breath. The light turns on in the windowless room. They shield their eyes from the sudden change.
“What have you done?” a sleepy Thacker, the detective’s assistant, asks.
“We were followed,” Caines answers.
“Did they just start following you for no reason?” the assistant asks suspiciously.
“We were at the crime scene,” Christophe admits honestly.
“I was there too,” Thacker says. “They made such a mess.”
“They’ve already tidied up,” Caines reports.
“How do you know?” the assistant asks, surprised.
“We just went back there a second time,” the detective explains.
“Tidied up?” Thacker repeats.
“Yes,” Caines confirms. “Strange, isn’t it?”
“That’s never happened before,” Thacker muses. “Did you find anything new?”
“Only a note,” the detective replies. Christophe looks on without emotion.
“What does it say?” Thacker asks.
“One word: ‘Soon’,” Caines stares intently into his assistant’s eyes.
“And that’s it?” Thacker is surprised.
“Just that word. You don’t happen to know anything about this pyramid, do you?” Caines asks.
“It’s a tricky thing. A star bursting from a pyramid. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Thacker considers.
“Neither have I,” Caines agrees.
“Maybe it’s a simple amulet?” the assistant suggests.
“Possibly,” Caines agrees, unexpected by Christophe.
“Where will you go?” Thacker asks.
“We haven’t decided yet,” the young gentleman replies.
“Yes,” Caines supports. “We’re going,” they approach the door.
“If you need anything, you know how to find me,” Thacker turns off the light.
Caines and Godlight walk out into the alley between the houses. They walk in the opposite direction down a narrow street leading into a part of the city left unlit due to an accident. They stop. They’re silent. They wait, deciding what to do next, observing the alley. A car pulls up. Thacker gets into the back seat without looking back. They disappear into the darkness of the other side of the street.
Caines feels Christophe’s tense gaze directed right at him. He lights a cigarette. He offers one to the young gentleman. On edge, Christophe gladly accepts, even though he only smokes Indian tobacco, and the detective can’t offer anything good in terms of cigarettes. Two orange glows slice through the black canvas of the night.
A few minutes are enough to inhale the invigorating smoke, which returns them to reality with a sense of relief. Now they can move on. There is no point in going to Godlight’s house. Caines’s house is also wrapped in attention. Christophe’s friends have a secret place where the woman is hiding. They can’t impose on Miss Huttly, though. The detective leads Christophe to his secret place.
Every person should have one. If they don’t have a basement or a garage, they must learn to hide in their own mind, disconnecting from the entire world. Fortunately, Caines has a reliably secure real-life refuge. The outwardly rusty padlock proves to be well-maintained on the inside. The key turns smoothly in the lock. The back door of the theater, which is closed for restoration, opens to visitors. The sound of their first steps rolls across the spectator seats covered in plastic sheeting.
“A theater?” Christophe voices his surprise.
“What’s wrong with a theater? I thought you were a frequent visitor to places like this.”
“That’s correct,” the gentleman agrees. “I just prefer to attend working theaters during premieres.”
“It’s worth being here today,” Caines assures him.
“What makes today so special?”
“Rather, the theater is special for us today.”
“Why? May I ask?” Christophe questions.
“Art doesn’t just serve as entertainment and a way to pass the time. The whole world of art, every part of it, can save the life of a single person and the entire world. One must not underestimate this beautiful means of survival.”
“What do you mean, my friend?” Godlight clarifies.
“What does a person think about during emotionally difficult moments?”
“Family, loved ones.”
“And what else?” Caines asks mysteriously.
“It’s better if you tell me. I don’t want to guess until morning,” Christophe smiles.
“When a person is happy or sad, is on the brink of death or realizes they have passed a fatal moment and clung to life. When a mother reunites with her children after a long separation. When wives and daughters meet their husbands and fathers returning from war. What happens during this time?”
“People rejoice; they are happy.”
“Exactly. Now, think about what joy and happiness are accompanied by?”
“You tell me. I can tell by your expression that you’ve spent many hours, days, and months contemplating this subject. So, share your thoughts.”
“In moments of great joy and deep sorrow, songs, dances, and scenes of life, like performances in a theater, sustain humanity. They become the foundation of books and new songs. Art is an integral part of human life. Life is the source of art. Art is the source of life. What can support a person in a difficult moment as powerfully as a familiar, beloved song? It’s always nearby, it’s ubiquitous, and it touches a person’s deepest feelings. Music plays against the backdrop of memories flying through the mind. We remember when we hear music. We live through art when we become a part of the beautiful. We come alive by letting the beautiful in. A theater as a refuge is far more pleasant than the basement of a ruined building.”
“I totally agree,” Godlight realizes his luck. “Tell me one thing.”
“What interests you?” Caines asks seriously.
“Why didn’t you tell your assistant about the cufflink after you told him about the note?”
“Do you remember the words about the pyramid with the star rising from it?”
“I remember. What about it?” Christophe asks, surprised.
“Thacker could have, at most, seen the case for this pyramid, and from that, it’s not clear what the object looks like. I personally only realized what it was after I looked at the bottom right of the note.”
“Yes, I also understood it from the note.”
“Two possibilities. Thacker saw the note before us or he knows about the pyramid.”
“And the tattoo on the woman’s neck? Diana Pierce has the same pyramid.”
“The tattoo is fresh. The drawing is distorted by inflammation and smeared colors. Moreover, Thacker was stripped of the opportunity to visit crime scenes and the morgue. I’m the only one who informs him about the cases. This time, I didn’t have time to say a word.”
“There’s no way he could have known about the pyramid,” Christophe guesses.
“Exactly!” the detective exclaims.
“Thacker lost your trust today,” young Godlight concludes.
“Yes, you’re right. My trust in him has been shaken. If our guesses are confirmed, the trust will vanish forever,” Caines says sadly.
“I understand,” Christophe says supportively.
“I figured that,” the detective says slyly.
“How?” young Godlight asks, surprised.
“You didn’t stay in the hideout under the ruins. The issue isn’t the refuge itself, is it? The spot is excellent for hiding. You’re suspicious of your friends.”
“I didn’t like their tone and the hidden hints. The strange looks. Shane and Bolton didn’t name their mysterious friends,” Christophe explains.
“I agree with you on that. That’s why I followed you without extra questions.”
“And you did the right thing. If those two are involved in a case where the power and money are many times greater than their own possessions, we can expect anything.”
“I see your father’s tragic experience was useful,” Caines remarks.
“I am grateful to my father for the lesson he gave me through a living example. Even if it was at the cost of his own life.”
“He had no choice,” Caines reassures him sadly.
“You know about that story?” young Godlight asks, surprised.
“Of course, I know. I was there,” the detective recalls heavily.
“Tell me, please. I need to know,” Christophe pleads.
“Alright. I hope you can glean even more experience from the full story.”
“Then tell me! Don’t drag it out!” Christophe urges from the stage, like the main character of a dramatic play.
“Alright. Listen carefully,” Caines unbuttons his coat and sits down in the middle of the first row of audience seats. “A catastrophic situation happened in the country back then. The stock market collapsed overnight. The news reached the top brass of our city. All the prominent figures gathered. Your father was leading the meeting. He asked me to come for peacekeeping. All the city residents’ money turned out to be invested in the securities of bankrupt firms owned by the elite. The best economists figured out how to get the rest of the money out. But not for the people; for the elite, to save their fortunes.”
“What about the people?” Christophe protests.
“Your father asked that, too,” Caines smirks. “They made it clear to him that no one cared about ordinary people. The main thing was to save their own capital.”
“How did it end?” young Godlight asks impatiently.
“Your father released the remaining money and distributed it not to the elite, but to the rightful owners, the city residents.”
“How did he manage to circumvent the most powerful people in the city?”
“All transactions with the securities went through your father. He disposed of it as he saw fit. He paid with his life,” Caines sighs heavily.
“In what sense?” Christophe clarifies, surprised.
“They didn’t forgive him for that move. They couldn’t take the money, so they took his life.”
“My father was murdered?” young Godlight cries out across the theater.
“A few days later, when all the money had been distributed to the people.”
“Who exactly?” Christophe presses.
“Everyone was there,” the detective recalls.
“And Mother?” the young man is horrified. “They told me they died in the mountains.”
“Your mother tried to stop them. Both were killed,” Caines reports in a heavy voice.
“Why wasn’t I at home then?”
“Your father was a wise man; he foresaw the future. To save you, he sent you to relatives.”
“Why do those hypocrites call themselves friends of the Godlight family?” Christophe protests.
“They’re waiting for the inheritance and complete power. And in the meantime, they have to be humble.”
“What do you mean, waiting for the inheritance?” Christophe clarifies.
“After your death without an heir, all property will pass to the community by the law drafted after your father’s death.”
“So, they need my death right now?” Christophe realizes.
“Yes. You understood correctly,” Caines confirms.
“But what does the death of two women have to do with this?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet. We need to find out all the circumstances quickly to keep you safe.”
“Do you realize that being near me puts you in just as much danger?”
“I understand perfectly,” Caines smiles sadly. “I was with your parents until the end and promised them I would look after you if I survived.”
“How did you survive?” Christophe considers.
“A miracle and your father saved me. When the crackdown began, they attacked us from all sides. Some used fists, some kicked, some armed themselves with chair legs. I took a few blows from a poker,” Caines says, showing the scars running across his back.
“And where did these scars come from?” Christophe touches the small scars closer to his sides.
“Someone thought to grab a knife,” the detective smirks.
“How did you manage to live through it?” Christophe never stops wondering.
“Your father was standing nearby. When he realized how it would end, he pushed me out the window. I fell from the second floor into a snowdrift. The soft snow and the cold saved my life. Your father was and remains a true friend to me.”
Christophe can’t say anything more. They go to sleep in a utility room on makeshift beds made of props and costumes for the plays. The young man thinks for a long time. The shocking news has turned his false life upside down and radically changed his view of everything and everyone. The detective tries to fall asleep. It doesn’t happen right away. Memories come alive in his mind. His scars and soul ache with equal intensity. After a few hours, he manages to coax sleep. The future promises to be tense and unpredictable. For some, it might be fleeting. But right now, they need rest.
They wake up not with the morning sun, but with a nighttime knock at the theater’s side door. The first three knocks remain in the silence of the concealed Godlight and Caines. They don’t rush to open it. The matter is much more serious than they thought if they’ve been found even in the secret refuge of the best detective in the city. The knocking is repeated. Christophe heads toward the door. Caines tries to stop the young man. The young gentleman doesn’t slow his pace. A second later, he stops near the door. He looks at the detective. He opens it. He lets in the unexpected guest.
“Miss Arvin?” Christophe doesn’t hide his surprise, seeing the fragile woman on the doorstep of a closed theater late at night.
“I don’t understand what surprises you, Mr. Godlight,” the woman says calmly. “Is it really so strange for a young woman to seek spiritual enrichment?”
“You’re a bit late for the beginning. And your clothing isn’t quite right for the theater,” Godlight says, inspecting her form-fitting dark pantsuit.
“I apologize,” Gwyneth says, excusing herself. “Perhaps you’ll let me in and close the door so no one else interrupts the performance?” the woman gestures toward the door.
“Yes, of course, come in,” Godlight closes the door. He escorts Miss Arvin to the first row. Caines brings out a kerosene lamp, burning with a weak, unsteady flame.
“What made you come to the premiere tonight?” the Miss asks.
“The noisy society makes one hide from the cruelty of existence. The strong desire to spend the evening quietly, to partake in the beautiful, won out,” Christophe replies calmly. “And what brought you here?”
“The same reasons,” Gwyneth answers with a smile.
“Is your sense of the beautiful truly so subtle and strong that it brought you specifically here at such an hour?”
“I am here thanks to practicality,” Miss Arvin answers seriously.
“What do you mean by practicality?” Godlight clarifies.
“Observational skills, stealth, and quick wit.”
“In other words, you were following us?” Christophe rephrases.
“No, something else,” Gwyneth smiles. “I led you to a safe place.”
“Led us?” Godlight asks, surprised.
“Yes, I think that’s the best definition,” Miss Arvin smirks.
“Why did you choose that specific wording?”
“How do you think you would have ended up here if not for the encounter with the person in dark clothing at the crime scene, the persistent pursuit down the night street, the meeting with Mr. Thacker in the secret location, and the suspicion of the assistant’s betrayal and collusion with the enemies?”
“So it was you in the apartment before us?” Godlight exclaims indignantly.
“I apologize for hitting you with the door. And for the wound,” the woman gently touches the cloth-covered wound on the back of the young gentleman’s head. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly.”
“It’s nothing,” Christophe moves the woman’s hand away from his head.
“Forgive me, Mr. Caines. I didn’t mean to push you down the stairs. I hope you weren’t badly bruised?”
“Not badly,” the detective runs his hand over his lower back, which aches severely after the fall.
“It was merely a necessity to guide you to the designated place.”
“How did you find out about Thacker?” Caines asks.
“You can call it woman’s intuition,” Miss Arvin smirks.
“Is he connected to Vincent Pierce?” the detective asks.
“He can only dream of such patrons. He helps the city’s elite.”
“Are they accomplices?” Caines clarifies.
“Thacker hasn’t earned that honor. He’s only allowed to serve for pennies. He transmits information about cases, helps conceal evidence, and plants new clues. A lot is done through him in the city, like a simple channel of communication, nothing more. As a person, no one is interested in him,” Gwyneth explains indifferently.
“How did you find out about this place?” Caines asks, surprised.
“A simple guess, based on logic and the ability to hide.”
“So you were following us after all,” the young gentleman concludes.
“Fine, you can call it that,” the woman agrees.
“With what goal do you expose the traitor and guide us to a known refuge?” Christophe asks.
“Your presence here is known only to me. No one else will know about it until morning, at the earliest. Only here are you safe.”
“Why is our safety so important to you?” Godlight asks.
“You must solve the murder,” Gwyneth answers seriously.
“What’s your personal interest in this case?” Christophe looks closely at her.
“Personal,” the woman replies briefly.
“Money?” Caines suggests.
“No. Foreseeing your subsequent questions, I answer with the same word.”
“Then what is your personal interest?” Godlight asks directly.
“You don’t need to know that,” the serious woman repeats.
“Why do you think we will solve this case?” Caines asks.
“Because you are the best at what you do.”
“We have practically no chance. Even you were able to predict our moves and guide us to the place you wanted,” Godlight reminds her.
“You overestimate the enemy and underestimate me,” the Miss smirks.
“What were you doing in the apartment?” Christophe recalls.
“Waiting for you,” the woman answers guilelessly.
“What about the note?” Caines approaches her.
“I don’t know what the word ‘Soon’ means under these circumstances.”
“Are you familiar with the image of the pyramid?” Godlight asks.
“Yes. But I can’t recall where from,” the woman muses.
“Don’t lie to us,” young Godlight says strictly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I never lie to people I trust.”
“And what do you say about this?” Caines shows her the cufflink from the sofa.
“Where did you get that?” Miss Arvin asks, surprised.
“In the apartment. I found it in the sofa. Are you familiar with this object?”
“I have a guess,” the woman looks at the gold cufflink uncertainly.
“Tell us what you surmise,” Godlight asks quietly.
“Forgive me, I don’t dare even guess. Let me tell you later, when I’m certain.”
“We agreed to honesty,” Christophe looks at her mistrustfully.
“That’s why I don’t want to assume incorrect possibilities. It’s better to tell the truth later.”
“Fine, we’ll wait until you’re more certain,” Godlight agrees. Caines looks at him with a suspicious gaze.
“I don’t think I need to remind you that it’s best not to return to the Godlight family house,” Gwyneth says, looking at Christophe.
“We figured as much,” the young gentleman says, disappointed.
“Excellent. Now go to sleep. You won’t be disturbed until morning; I’ve taken care of that,” the woman walks toward the door.
“How?” Christophe asks.
“Guiding someone on a false trail is even easier than leading them to the right place,” the Miss smirks, exiting the theater. The gentleman sees a few silent, disappearing steps. He closes the door.
“What do you think?” Christophe returns to the detective.
“A strange woman,” Caines voices. “Do you think we can trust her?”
“As you see, there are no more guests. Miss Arvin somehow knew about your refuge. Just as she foresaw all the steps she herself orchestrated. The woman is ahead of us in her calculations,” Godlight says, admiringly. “I think we should allow her to believe in our unconditional subordination.”
“Miss Arvin has achieved a high level in calculations and psychology,” Caines admits. “Did you see the woman’s reaction to the cufflink?”
“I forgot to ask right away why you didn’t tell me about your find?” Christophe asks, indignant.
“Forgive me, I didn’t know who I could trust.”
“Forgiving your distrust is practically impossible. Although, given the situation, I’m willing to try,” the young Godlight replies.
“Thank you. Let’s greet the morning well-rested,” Caines lies down on his bed.
“A good suggestion,” Christophe lies down on the makeshift bed. He puts out the kerosene lamp.
The entire theater becomes an abode of darkness, permeated with silence and peace. The stage is empty. The hall has seen off its last spectator. The nighttime performance of three actors has ended with quiet applause in recognition of the secret’s disclosure. Not only has Godlight lost the last remnants of trust in his family’s friends. Caines, who hasn’t trusted anyone around him for a long time, has stopped trusting his assistant Thacker, whom he trusted as he trusted himself. A true night of disappointments. The entire city is built on betrayal and lies, cemented by the blood and bones of people who have fallen victim to knives in the back.