The world outside was alive with the sound of Christmas cheer—laughter echoing from bustling streets, the distant notes of a brass band playing carols, the rhythmic chime of bells from a Salvation Army stand. Yet here I sat, detached from it all, as if separated by an invisible barrier. The season's warmth and joy felt foreign, intrusive even, against the chill that had settled in my mind.
Cassandra.
Her name lingered, heavy and unshakable, like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples she left disturbed everything they touched, spreading out into the furthest corners of my thoughts. I couldn't let it rest, not even now.
I reached for the notepad lying on the edge of my desk, a thin layer of dust coating its surface. I brushed it off absently, flipping it open to a fresh page. The world outside might have been caught up in festive trivialities, but my focus couldn't waver. I wasn't one for mundane distractions—not the kind that came wrapped in ribbon or tied up in paperwork.
I leaned back in my chair, pen in hand, staring at the blank page. It wasn't so much that I was stuck—I knew what I needed to write. But I hesitated, knowing each word would pull me deeper into her web, a web she had spun with such precision that even her lies seemed like truths.
There was no joy in this season for me, no comfort in simple cases or routine procedures. Only this—this gnawing obsession, this need to understand her, to unravel the person she had become. Perhaps to understand why I couldn't stop thinking about her.
I scribbled the letter N over and over on the notepad, the ink pressing deeper with each repetition. It was a simple letter, almost meaningless in isolation, yet it refused to leave my mind. The curves of the pen strokes blurred as I stared at them, my thoughts spiraling into a maze of uncertainties.
My mind raced with a thousand theories, each more improbable than the last. The cross pendants—it all came back to those damn pendants. They had to mean something. Every piece of evidence whispered a story, and I was determined to hear it.
I jolted upright in my chair, the pen clattering to the desk. My fingers were tense, gripping the edge of the table as if holding on to some fleeting realization. The letter N... it had a significance I couldn't grasp. It sat just at the tip of my tongue, tantalizingly close, yet maddeningly out of reach.
I ran a hand through my hair, the frustration mounting. Why couldn't I see it? There was a pattern here, a connection buried in the recesses of my mind, but the pieces refused to fit. Was it a name? A place? An idea?
The notepad now bore countless N's, each one a testament to my growing obsession. My gut told me this wasn't a dead end—that this letter was a thread in a larger web I hadn't yet unraveled. But for now, the answer eluded me, leaving me trapped in the liminal space between revelation and uncertainty.
N... N... N... I scribbled furiously on the notepad, the ink smudging under my fingers as the letters multiplied across the page. Suddenly, it hit me like a jolt of electricity.
"Noah Dawson."
The name rolled off my tongue, clear and undeniable. That was it.
I shot up from my chair, the force sending it skidding back a few inches. "That's it!" I exclaimed, my voice ringing louder than I'd intended.
From across the room, Sasha froze mid-motion, her pen hovering just above her own stack of paperwork. Her eyes, sharp and observant, slid toward me in a way that made me think of a bird of prey—keen, calculating, and not easily fooled.
"What happened, sir?" she asked, her tone as neutral as ever, though her gaze betrayed a hint of curiosity.
"Nothing," I replied quickly, waving her off with a nonchalant gesture. "Just the enthusiasm of finishing some paperwork."
Her eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, and I knew she wasn't buying it. "Paperwork?" she echoed, her voice tinged with dry skepticism. "Aren't those papers about... mere electricity bills?"
My lips twitched in response, caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "Electricity bills are very important, Sasha," I said, deflecting with as much authority as I could muster.
Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she shook her head and returned to her work, muttering something under her breath about "detective priorities."
But I couldn't care less about what she thought. My mind was already racing again, pulling at the threads of this new realization. Noah Dawson—why hadn't I connected the dots sooner? Something so basic, so glaringly obvious, had been hiding in plain sight.
I picked up the old case file of Noah Dawson. It had been only five months, so, in sense it was still a fresh case. Five months not that long to be forgotten.
Sasha stretched her hand and yawned. She was ready to leave, having finished her paperwork, but I stopped her.
"Sasha, can you pull up some details on Noah Dawson?" I asked.
"Noah?" She frowned, her hand hesitating over her bag.
"Yes, Noah Dawson."
"Sir," she sighed, dropping her bag back onto the desk. "I can provide limited details. It's Christmas Eve. Everything's slowed down—companies, schools, you name it. It's like the world decided to take a collective nap." Her irritation bubbled just under the surface, her brows arched in clear defiance.
"Sasha," I said firmly, my tone cutting through her reluctance. "Please."
She exhaled sharply, muttering something under her breath, and sat back down. Fingers flying over the keyboard, she searched for the information. After a few minutes, she chimed in, her voice still tinged with annoyance.
"Noah Dawson worked as a computer engineer in Schwat City at SuperTech Pvt. Ltd. He held a team leader position, something he earned after ten years of experience. Records indicate he joined the company at twenty-five, fresh out of college. Looks like he was dependable and... religious about his work." She tilted her head. "No red flags, at least on the surface."
"Good," I said, grabbing my keys. "Let's go."
"Go where?" she asked, narrowing her eyes as I slipped on my coat.
"For a Christmas drive, of course," I said casually.
Her squint deepened. "Sir, with all due respect, no way is this a Christmas drive. What's going on?"
I smirked faintly, motioning her toward the door. "You'll see. Bring your coat."
Reluctantly, she followed, grumbling to herself as we stepped into the cold December night. She knew better than to believe it was going to be festive—and judging by the look on her face, she was already piecing together that this 'drive' would lead us somewhere far darker than twinkling lights and Christmas carols.