JACQUARIOUS

The elevator doors whispered open when we reached the top floor, unveiling a corridor wrapped in marbled graphite and muted bronze. The end of the hall seemed to shudder back at us, chasmic space where a single frosted-glass door stood lingering open, edged in matte brass and overwritten with a name I'd long since grown accustomed to spotting in JetGirl fashion spreads and Starcart Weekly exposés:

CEKODA BENNINGTON

Light spilling from a cudgel of pendant fixtures littering the expanse, we stepped out into it—Officer Longchamp to my left, just slightly behind. His shoulders squared, his gaze darting, his eyes scanning everything in stride—the cameras in the corners, the gilded trim on the baseboards, the weight of the hush that flitted all around us.

On swaying steps, I led the way to Cekoda's office, its vantage at the hall's end like the throne room of a sovereign—an ice-clear enclosure embossed with the Benin & Chic insignia flanked by clothy busts of stylized models, their heads tilted in conspiratorial symmetry and sugar-spun in alabaster white.

I knocked. The sound was gentle; but somehow, it still echoed.

"Come in," mused the voice behind the door—smooth and satined, coated mellifluence.

Officer Longchamp gave me a glance I couldn't quite clock.

I pushed the doors open...and there she was.

Hands disrobing the top of her desk, Cekoda Bennington rose to her feet and strode to meet us in a blazer of oxblood silk, soft but sharply cut. Her earrings were solid pearls nestled in golden coils, a glowing wink to match her face as we locked eyes.

"Jacquarious," she whispered in a gentle croon. "You okay, baby?" Her arms circled around me in a hug that didn't fit the room, like soft moonlight pulling in the tide.

I nodded into her shoulder. "Yeah," I mumbled. "Just...freaked out."

She leaned back, brushing her hand against my cheek before turning to the man standing behind me. "Officer Longchamp, I presume?"

He nodded. "Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Bennington."

"Cekoda, please." She unwrapped her arms from my shoulder and guided the two of us to the seating area across from her desk—a pair of velveted chairs twining a glass coffee table stacked with fragrance samples. "May I offer either of you a drink?"

"We're good," Officer Longchamp said, making himself comfortable as she sauntered back behind her desk. "Appreciate you taking the time. I'm sure you can guess what this is about."

"Of course." Aunt Cekoda offered a wistful nod. "Tyler's death has been devastating, to say the least." She folded both arms across her lap. "He was like a second pair of hands for me. Reliable. Discreet. And cleverer than most people gave him credit for."

Officer Longchamp tilted his head. "Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior in the weeks before his death? Anything...out of character?"

She paused—eyes fluttering above his head before returning to his face. "He seemed...distracted. More than usual. He stayed late a few nights. Took calls out on the terrace instead of at his desk. But nothing that alarmed me."

"Did he mention Fenton Maverick at all?" Officer Longchamp asked. "Or anything about the merger?"

Something flickered in Cekoda's gaze—a subtle tightening at the corners. "We're in the final stages of the agreement. Tensions are high. But Fenton is a gentleman. Old-school. Reflective. We disagree on a great many things, but he listens more than most men in his position would."

"Listening is one thing," Officer Longchamp said. "But trust is quite another. And for a merger of this size to work, I'm sure someone of your stature understands how...imperative it is that you be able to trust your closest allies."

Aunt Cekoda chuckled at that. "Officer, Fenton and I are dear friends. Since the early days of Benin & Chic, we've always had mutual respect for one another. I know how these things might look from the outside, but let me be perfectly clear—Fenton would never harm anyone at my organization, and neither would I."

Longchamp leaned back slowly in his chair. "Even if someone had something to gain from the deal falling apart?"

Her lips parted, a subtle breath passing between them. "To be blunt, Officer, the only ones who stand to gain from chaos are those who've already lost control. That's not me, and it's not Fenton."

I stayed quiet, fidgeting at the hem of my shirt; but I could feel her eyes drifting toward me.

Officer Longchamp rapped a finger once on his knee. "Ms. Bennington, would you be willing to share a list of associates who were in the building the week before Tyler's death?"

Her mouth twisted as he leaned forward.

"We'd like to review employee logs, building access, and internal security footage for the week prior to Mr. Berkin's death, as well as any financial transfers or bonuses processed within the past year that might raise flags."

There was a beat of silence—half a breath. "Done."

Officer Longchamp blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"I'll authorize it," she said. "All of it. My head of operations will forward the relevant data to your precinct by morning. And I'll have legal expedite the privacy waivers."

Officer Longchamp held his hunched position, shoulders squared, the subtlest of twitches flicking through his brow.

She really caught him off guard.

"That's...extremely cooperative, Ms. Bennington."

Her back stiffened, eyes sweeping toward me and then back to him. "My corporation is large, but it's built on trust. As a man beholden to bureaucracy, I imagine you can appreciate that." She lifted a finger to trace a strand of stray hair that framed her cheek. "Have you been reading the paper, Officer?"

A twist of fright thudded at my chest.

"Of course." Officer Longchamp shifted in his seat.

"As well you should. Their newest editorialist is...quite something. 'Whiteface,' I believe? That's his name, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. Very evocative."

"That killer who's been writing to the paper—he almost sounds jealous that he didn't think of it first." Her eyes found mine again. "Whiteface," she mused once more.

Officer Longchamp shifted again. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, surely, you must've heard. When I finally met with Regina, that's all she could talk about. Poetry written in blood, cryptic notecards with rhyming threats. It's rather hysterical, if you ask me."

Officer Longchamp clasped both his hands together, elbows resting on his knees. "Ms. Bennington, if there's something you're trying to say—"

"There is." She stared straight into his eyes. "And I suggest you listen carefully."

He cocked back his neck.

"You're welcome to check all the camera logs that you like. Camp out in the dressing rooms and turn this building upside down. My people are clean, all of us." She tapped twice on her right temple. "The ones you should be watching aren't the ones in front of the cameras. They're the ones hiding in plain sight."

Officer Longchamp cleared his throat. "Very well," he said after a pause, standing. "Thank you again, Ms. Bennington. If you think of anything else—"

"You and Chief Mercer will be the first to know," she replied, rising with him and sashaying to the door ahead of us. She gripped the handle and turned to me—and for a hushed, sweltering moment, there was something softer glimmering behind her eyes. "Jacquarious...I hope you're being careful."

"...I am," I whispered, lowering my gaze.

"Good." She bent forward, kissed the top of my head. "Because secrets have a way of turning into headlines. And headlines..." Her voice dropped. "Headlines tend to burn."

I swallowed hard, Officer Longchamp sliding an arm around my shoulder and escorting me from the room. We trekked back up the hallway that seemed shorter now...and drenched with ice.

As we climbed inside the elevator, its metallic doors dinging shut, Officer Longchamp let out a long and steady breath. Then he glanced sideways at me.

"You good, kid?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Just...yeah, I'm okay."

His stare lingered, rooted to my shivering frame. "And there's...nothing you want to tell me?"

"What? N-no, Officer...I mean G-Gavin."

But my aunt's words echoed as we made our descent, a thunderous refrain louder than the hum all around us.

Secrets turn into headlines. And headlines tend to burn.