The ice cube in my glass settles with a sharp, lonely crack. This apartment is a masterpiece of expensive anonymity, all brushed steel and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking a city that doesn't know I exist. For two years, I have been Elliot Sato’s best-kept secret, a ghost moving through rooms paid for in untraceable cash. I take a sip of the vintage white, the crisp acidity coating my tongue as I look at the single silver earring sitting on the hallway carpet. It isn't mine. I didn't leave it there.
A sudden, heavy knock shatters the quiet. I don't move at first. No one comes here. When I open the door, a woman stands there with the tired eyes of someone who has seen too many bad endings. She doesn't wait for an invitation, stepping over the threshold and flashing a badge that catches the cold LED light.
“Maya Tan? I’m Detective Naomi Brewer,” she says, her voice like gravel. “Celeste Sato is dead. We found her in the pool this evening. Your name was the only thing written in her husband’s private diary.”
Brewer’s hand dives into her lapel, pulling a glossy photograph from the dark silk.
