Anya sank onto the chaise lounge, the plush velvet doing little to cushion the hard edges of her fear. Detective Corbin stood before her, his expression a carefully constructed mask of professional detachment. Yet, behind his eyes, she saw a flicker of something else – curiosity? Skepticism? Or perhaps, something darker, something that mirrored the unsettling enigma of the bloodless corpse.
"Start from the beginning," he had said. The words echoed in her mind, a simple request that felt impossibly complex. Where did the beginning even lie? With Damien's arrival at the ball? With his cryptic words? Or with the strange feeling that had haunted her all evening, a sense of being watched, of being a player in a game with rules she didn't understand?
She took a deep breath, the air catching in her throat. "The ball…" she began, her voice hoarse. "It was my birthday. Everyone who is… anyone was there. Politicians, artists, business moguls… and Damien."
Corbin nodded, his gaze unwavering. He held a small, silver notepad and a pen, but he didn't write anything down. It was a subtle tactic, Anya realized, a way of encouraging her to talk, to fill the silence.
"Damien… he was a guest," Anya continued, her mind racing, trying to piece together the fragmented memories. "He was charming, as always. But tonight… there was an edge to him. A possessiveness. He pulled me aside, said he needed to speak with me in private."
"About what?" Corbin asked, his voice low and steady.
Anya hesitated. How could she explain Damien's words without sounding insane? A debt owed. Power you don't know you possess. They were the words of a madman, not a powerful businessman.
"He… he was talking about a business deal," she said, the lie feeling clumsy and inadequate. "A potential investment. He was… insistent."
Corbin raised an eyebrow, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. "Insistent enough to…?" He gestured towards the body with his pen.
Anya flinched. "No! I swear… he grabbed my arm. Hard. I was scared. I… I grabbed the letter opener. It was self-defense."
The words sounded hollow, even to her own ears. Self-defense? For a woman who moved in circles where threats were whispered, not acted upon? It felt like a flimsy excuse, a desperate attempt to explain the inexplicable.
Corbin remained silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Anya. She could feel his eyes dissecting her, searching for the truth in the tangled web of her words. Finally, he spoke.
"The letter opener," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Where is it now?"
Anya's heart sank. She had dropped it in her panic. "I… I don't know. Somewhere… near him, I think."
Corbin nodded, then turned to one of the uniformed officers. "Search the area. Carefully." He turned back to Anya. "You said he grabbed your arm. Can I see it, please?"
Anya hesitated, then slowly extended her left arm. Corbin gently took her wrist, his touch surprisingly light. He examined her skin, his brow furrowing slightly. There was a faint red mark, barely visible against her pale skin. It could have been from anything.
"And then?" he prompted, releasing her arm.
"And then… I… I don't really remember," Anya stammered, her head throbbing. "It happened so fast. One moment he was there, the next… he was on the floor."
"And there was no blood," Corbin finished, his voice dropping to a near whisper. It wasn't a question.
Anya's eyes widened. "You… you noticed?"
Corbin inclined his head. "It's… unusual. A wound like that should have produced… significant blood loss." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room again, lingering on the shattered mirror. "Unusual is… an understatement."
The other officers had finished their search. One of them approached Corbin, holding the silver letter opener in an evidence bag. Corbin took it, examining it briefly before handing it back.
"We'll need to take this as evidence," he said. "And I'll need you to come down to the station, Ms. Petrova. To give a formal statement."
Anya nodded, numbly. She felt like she was moving through a dream, a surreal and terrifying landscape where nothing made sense. The dead man with no blood, the detective with his unsettlingly calm demeanor, the feeling of being watched… it was all too much.
As she stood, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Corbin reached out, steadying her with a firm hand. His touch was brief, but it sent a strange shiver through her, a sensation that was almost… comforting?
"Are you alright?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.
"I… I'll be fine," Anya said, pulling herself together. She was Anya Petrova. She didn't faint. She didn't break. She survived.
Corbin watched her for a moment longer, then nodded. "Let's go then."
As they walked out of the penthouse, the rain had stopped. The city lights glittered below, a million tiny stars against the dark canvas of the night. But Anya saw no beauty in the view. She saw only the reflection of her shattered life, and the long, dark road that lay ahead.
Detective Miles Corbin stood on the balcony of Anya Petrova's penthouse, the city breeze ruffling his hair. The flashing lights of the police cars below painted the expensive front of the building bright, in stark, dramatic hues. It was a scene of chaos, of disruption, a jarring contrast to the serene elegance of the interior.
Corbin was no stranger to death. He'd seen it in all its gruesome forms, from the cold, clinical sterility of a hospital room to the bloody, brutal aftermath of gang violence. But this… this was different. This wasn't just death. This was… wrong.
The lack of blood was the most obvious anomaly, but it wasn't the only one. There was also the expression on Damien Thorne's face – a look of pure, unadulterated terror that Corbin had rarely seen, even in the faces of those who knew they were about to die. It was the face of someone who had seen something truly horrifying.
And then there was Anya Petrova herself. Beautiful, poised, and impossibly pale, she was a mix of surprising contradictions. She claimed self-defense, but her eyes held a deep, unsettling fear that went beyond the shock of killing someone. She was hiding something, Corbin was sure of it. But what?
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the information he had already gathered on Anya Petrova. Heiress to a vast fortune, a philanthropist, a patron of the arts… the picture-perfect image of a woman who had everything. But Corbin knew that appearances could be deceiving. Everyone had secrets. Some were just better at hiding them than others.
His phone buzzed. It was a text from his partner, Detective Isabella "Izzy" Diaz.
Corbin, any updates? You sounded… tense on the phone.
Corbin hesitated for a moment, then typed a quick reply. Scene is… complicated. Victim is Damien Thorne. Petrova is claiming self-defense. No blood.
He hit send, then stared out at the city lights, his mind racing. This case was already twisting and turning in ways he couldn't comprehend. He had a feeling that he was about to step into a world where the rules didn't apply, a world where the shadows held secrets darker than he could possibly imagine. And he had a feeling that Anya Petrova was the key.