Ethan
Amid the blaring noise of the television, colors flickering and reflecting in my eyes, the sound of explosions, and the irritating crunch of snacks between Max's teeth as he sat beside me—
We had been watching a movie together for quite some time now, and I barely knew what it was about.
I had my feet propped up on the table, sinking into the couch in boredom, shooting Max a look that could kill when his grease-covered hand touched the table.
I felt my body sink deeper.
My eyes were empty, fixed on scenes I neither saw nor heard.
It had been a while since that party—the one that brought together people I never expected to see in a way I actually enjoyed.
Since then, we had been talking a lot—far from the investigation.
Short calls had grown longer. We spoke about Greek philosophy as if we had lived through it ourselves, or about her favorite writers, and how full of contradictions she was.
And that was what intrigued me most.
Every minute, my eyes drifted toward my phone, whose notifications I had deliberately unmuted—but to no avail.
Max's astonished voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
He nudged my shoulder quickly, his eyes glued to the screen.
"Look, Ethan—did you see that?!"
His mouth hung open in shock as he looked at me, as if these films were the only thing distracting him from his thoughts lately.
I shook my head.
"See what?"
Max replied, still staring at the screen,
"She's the killer… see? The victim is the killer, just like I told you."
I rolled my eyes in boredom.
"Predictable, Max. An overused, painfully recycled plot."
I sighed, my gaze drifting to my phone as it lit up with a notification—just social media.
I continued, glancing at Max, who seemed completely absorbed:
"The one farthest from suspicion is always the villain."
I snatched the bowl of popcorn from his hand, chewing absentmindedly.
Another notification.
This time—it was Camila.
I quickly set the bowl on his lap, grabbing my phone. For the first time since the movie started, I returned to reality.
Max shot me a side glance—enough to understand everything.
"I actually haven't left the house for a week. I feel slightly unwell, so I haven't gone to work."
That was her reply.
I was surprised she even had time to talk.
And Liam… hadn't attended his sessions with her for a while now.
I think I knew why.
"I'll be there in half an hour. I'm taking you out to dinner."
I didn't wait for her reply. I hung up quickly and got ready to leave.
It was nine in the evening.
The moment I pulled her chair out, she sat across from me.
Dim lights hung from the ceiling, reflecting softly against the restaurant's glass. Trees and flowers stretched in bright branches, drawing the eye.
A calm silence flowed through the nearly empty space—just us—while a soft piano played in the background.
I wasn't focused on the details I had carefully arranged beforehand.
I was focused on her pupils as she observed them.
The surprise in her eyes when the waiter placed the dishes I had chosen.
She lifted her gaze to me, her fingers idly spinning her drink.
"I'm no longer surprised by how much you know about me, Detective."
I smiled faintly, picking up my knife and fork, beginning to eat without answering.
"It's one of a policeman's hobbies, Doctor."
She raised a brow, her eyes speaking for her lips—that skeptical look, despite its charm.
"One of your hobbies includes knowing my favorite piece too?"
I paused, wetting my lips slightly, playing along.
"A guess… Erik Satie? It suits you."
She hummed, unconvinced.
"Gnossienne No.1 is indeed my favorite."
As she began eating, I said,
"You know… you're a bit of a strange person, Camila."
She paused mid-bite, surprise flickering across her face before she spoke.
"I mean… half Australian, half American. You love Greek philosophers as if you lived through their ideas. You listen to French classical music. Your favorite authors are Russian."
She smiled faintly—though not innocently.
"I think contradictions make people more interesting… don't you, Ethan?"
I laughed at her wordplay, nodding.
"Or more dangerous… Cam."
She set her fork down, wiping her lips lightly, leaning back—then turned it on me, as expected from a mind like hers.
"What about you, Detective? Do you believe the law is always just?"
She raised a brow, questioning—while I noticed the faint swelling beneath her tired eyes.
I spoke without breaking eye contact.
"Not always. Sometimes the law needs a little push to prove the truth."
Her lips curved into a smile. I had stepped exactly where she wanted.
"A little push… or a fatal one?"
She fell silent for a moment, her fingers circling the glass, her gaze drifting away.
"So you believe the end justifies the means."
I stepped forward on her board.
"You also know Machiavelli—the one accused of justifying cruelty—was the same man who called Florence to freedom."
Silence.
Then I echoed her words:
"I think contradictions make people more interesting… don't you, Cam?"
Camila laughed, setting her glass down.
"A winning round for you, Detective."
I rested my hands on the table, leaning closer.
"I play by your rules, Cam."
She met my gaze. Silence stretched—she seemed bored of the wordplay.
She broke it.
"But you know this era well… the end justifies the means, no matter how you dress it up. You may call it justice—I don't need to decorate the truth."
I didn't break eye contact—but I didn't push further.
She never wanted conversations to reach that point.
She held my gaze just as long.
Then she took my glass instead of hers.
"I see you stare a lot… do you watch me even outside the case?"
"Sometimes curiosity is more dangerous than the case itself, Cam."
A work call interrupted us. I murmured briefly, telling them I'd arrive soon.
I ended the call, stood, and gently took her hand, helping her up.
I held her hand longer than necessary.
She didn't pull away.
I walked beside her without telling her where we were going.
"Yes, I like leaving things unfinished… it builds curiosity. But not this much."
I didn't respond to her teasing.
"You'll see."
---
A short silence filled the car until we arrived.
A tall building loomed in the darkness, surrounded by faint traces of life.
I took her hand again, guiding her behind me, positioning myself ahead in case of anything unexpected.
A side entrance.
We climbed the stairs.
She didn't speak—as I expected—but her surprise was obvious.
Her grip tightened on my hand when the foul smell hit us near the apartment.
A back door through the kitchen.
The smell worsened as we stepped inside, stopping in the living room.
Security officers everywhere. A forensic photographer documenting evidence.
She gripped my hand tightly, her face contorting in disgust, covering her nose and mouth.
I watched her, waiting for a word.
An officer stood beside me, briefing me on the scene.
Her eyes were fixed on the body—face down, a bullet through the center of the head.
Blue flies swarmed relentlessly.
I tapped her shoulder lightly.
"A sudden crime. I wanted your opinion… from a medical perspective. What do you think of the offender's behavior?"
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself, then began walking through the rooms. I followed quietly, trying to read her.
Blood everywhere. The sink. Cleaning tools. Bed sheets.
She returned to the living room, stopping again near the body, still kept at a distance by the tape.
She stood far from it, trying not to look.
"Look… this isn't my job, but based on behavior, the crime scene is staged."
I frowned slightly.
"I mean—the bedroom was deliberately trashed to look like a robbery. A thief wouldn't scatter the bed, wouldn't leave the wallet and phone untouched, wouldn't mess up the entire place."
She continued:
"What would they even steal from a bed or a living room?"
I stayed silent, letting her continue.
"And the killer was nervous. It was a gunshot—not stabbing—yet blood is everywhere. He tried to clean, but didn't finish. Then he fled through the bedroom window, not even noticing the back door."
I responded, recalling the neighbors' statements:
"He probably panicked after the gunshot. That window leads to alleys—safer than the back stairs."
She nodded.
Her disgust worsened.
She rushed out through the back stairs—it wasn't far, just the second floor.
I ran after her.
She leaned against a car, her back to me.
I grabbed her shoulder, turning her—
And froze.
She threw up—on my black shirt.
My eyes widened in shock as her exhausted gaze lifted to meet mine.
Her makeup was ruined by tears, sweat beading on her forehead.
I stepped beside her, rubbing her back as she finished.
I grabbed tissues, wiping her face.
Once we were in the car, she closed her eyes while I cleaned my clothes, glancing at her occasionally.
Then her tired voice broke the silence:
"That's the first time I've seen a man take a woman on a date… to a crime scene."
I paused, glancing at her, suppressing a smile.
"I thought you liked excitement."
She let out a weak, sarcastic laugh, staring out the window.
"Not this kind."
---
As I drove, my mind replayed the scene.
Her disgust.
The way she moved through the apartment, analyzing—then leaving.
I helped her upstairs, supporting her as she pulled out her keys.
That "mild fever" she mentioned was worse than I thought.
I laid her on the bed, removing her shoes.
A simple touch told me how high her temperature was—yet she could still speak.
She opened her eyes slowly, studying me.
"Today… is Tuesday. Detective, you always wear black on Tuesdays."
I froze, confused, pausing with the cold compress.
Was she delirious?
She smiled faintly, clarifying:
"You're obsessive. A different color for each day… so I ruined today's."
I searched for her medicine, surprised—I hadn't noticed that about myself before.
She pointed weakly.
"Second shelf, Ethan."
I paused.
Then reached for it.
As I did, a bottle fell.
Sedatives.
Next to it—sleeping pills.
A psychiatrist… with nervous breakdowns.
More contradictions than I thought.
After taking the medicine, she asked:
"Is that how detectives are?"
I frowned.
"How?"
"You take women from dinner… to crime scenes."
I laughed, sitting beside her again.
"Just another day."
"Then visit my clinic often, Detective."
I smiled, nodding at her delirium.
I checked her temperature again and again.
I shifted in my seat, watching her as she slept—murmuring faintly.
Guilt crept in.
I shouldn't have taken her there.
But what was strange…
She never asked where we were going.
Or who the victim was.