Phantom Strings

Chapter 2

Then she breaks first.

"How'd you know my name?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. She's trying to maintain eye contact. Good.

I smirk. I actually admire the effort.

"I had to do a background search on Vanessa, of course." My voice is smooth, deliberate. "And you came up. Naturally, I found out who you were."

I lean forward just a fraction, my gaze locked onto hers.

"Born on October 12th, yeah? Eighteen years old. Needs to move out of the orphanage soon. Average marks." I pause, tilting my head. "So I'm guessing you don't have a plan, huh? Or do you?"

I hold her gaze, watching. Waiting.

She hesitates, clearly uncomfortable and caught off guard. She doesn't have a plan—I know it immediately. The slight shift in her seat, the way her eyes flick away for half a second, the sudden tension in her posture. A flicker of self-doubt.

"What do you want?" she finally asks, keeping her voice even. Smart girl. She's cautious.

I sigh, tilting my head slightly. "Are you aware your friend is dead?"

Her reaction is immediate—her eyes go wide, and panic tightens her face. "What?! How?!" Then, her expression darkens, voice sharp with accusation. "Don't tell me you killed her. She was a good woman!"

I laugh. Amused. Pleased, even. "Daliya, darling," I say, shaking my head, "do you really think I'd admit to murder if I had?" My voice is light, teasing. I tilt my head back slightly, watching her. I got her killed.

"No, of course I didn't kill her, love." Not exactly a lie.

I lean forward just a little, lowering my voice. "Your friend was on heavy drugs. A lethal mix of heroin and fentanyl. Let me guess—some flashy guys promised her a way out, something better?" I hum, studying Daliya's face for any reaction. "She didn't stand a chance. That combination shuts your body down slowly. Her heart would have slowed, her breathing would have grown weaker—thirty, maybe forty minutes before she suffocated in her own skin. More than enough time to do what she did."

Daliya stares at me, frozen in place. Horror. Grief. Shock.

Good.

I let her sit with it. Let her process.

Because when people are grieving, they get sloppy. And I need answers.

I wait for a while, hoping she doesn't get too emotional. I don't do well when people put me in places like that. I don't know why—I just don't care. Or maybe I want to, but I don't understand why they feel that way. Probably my problem. I prefer to deal with things by detaching, shifting focus, moving on.

Daliya blinks. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, she runs her palms up her arms, as if trying to chase away a chill that wasn't really there. She exhales, a shaky breath slipping past her lips.

"Figures," she murmurs, her voice thick but steady. "She was always chasing something. Guess she finally found it."

Her fingers dig lightly into the fabric of her sleeves, the only real betrayal of how much this is affecting her. She swallows hard, her eyes flickering toward the door, like she's debating whether to just get up and walk away from all this. I watch, unmoving, detached. If she leaves, she leaves. If she stays, we talk. Simple.

But she doesn't leave. Instead, she meets my gaze, something wary and exhausted in her expression.

"You seem to know a lot," she says after a beat, her voice quieter now. "Why do you care?"

I smile, but it's the kind that never reaches my eyes. Cold. Calculated.

"Your friend blew up my club—the one in a central, busy city. That cuts profits down a lot, don't you think, darling?" My voice is smooth, effortless, as if we're discussing the weather. I tilt my head slightly. "I'm at a loss right now, and I don't like losing."

I shift slightly in my seat, crossing one leg over the other with lazy ease, like I have all the time in the world. My fingers tap against the armrest, slow, measured.

"Care is a strong word," I continue, adjusting my glasses with a deliberate slowness. "But let's just say I care enough to make sure it doesn't happen again." My gaze sharpens, the corners of my lips curving into something just shy of a smirk. "And that means I need answers."

Daliya stiffens—just barely, but I catch it. The slight tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers dig into her sleeves.

"You see," I continue, my voice softer now, almost amused, "I don't think that fire was just some reckless act of destruction. I think it was meant to kill me."

I let the words settle, giving them the weight they deserve. Then, as if it's a passing thought, I add, "I was supposed to be there that night. Had Vanessa started the fire just a little later, I'd have been trapped inside. Burned alive."

I inhale, slow and measured.

I had gotten stuck in unexpected traffic—something about a guy's suicide. Their life, their choice, but people had to be nosy. I guess it's normal to have concern. At the time, I was pissed about the holdup. Turns out, one person's death saved mine. Funny how that works.

I send a quick thank you to the Moirai.

Daliya shifts in her seat, her shoulders tight, her hands curling just slightly against her lap. She's thinking—debating, calculating.

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbow on the armrest, my chin against my knuckles. Casual. Unbothered. But my eyes never leave hers.

"So tell me, Daliya," I murmur, tilting my head like I already know the answer, "why does it feel like you know something?" I tap my fingers lightly against the wood of the chair. Slow. Rhythmic. "Maybe you don't realize it yet, but it's there."

I lower my voice just slightly.

"And I'm very good at finding things that are hidden."

I let the silence stretch, just long enough for unease to settle under her skin, before adding, "You see, I could look for those answers elsewhere, but I have a feeling you'd rather I didn't." I smile again, slow, deliberate. "You seem like the smart type, Daliya. You know how these things go. When I ask for something, I always get it—one way or another."

I sit back, giving her the illusion of space, but my presence doesn't retreat.

"Tell me what you know," I say lightly. "It'll be easier for everyone."

She exhales through her nose, her hands interlaced her gaze flickers to my dark green nails with black serpents on them. I smirk.

"I don't think I know anything that would be useful to you." She says hesitantly, her posture stiff, hands fidgeting. Her eyes flick to mine, never holding for more than a second.

My smirk fades. My jaw tightens as I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled. She was lying—so clearly, so pathetically—to my face.

And I had been honest before. I really didn't want to harm her.

I lean forward slightly, voice clipped. "Daliya, I analyse people for a living. Do you really think I can't tell when someone's lying? If you're going to lie, at least make it believable."

She bites her lip. "I don't know what you're talking about." This time, her voice is smoother. She's trying, at least. I can appreciate the effort.

My eyes close briefly as I exhale through my mouth. "I know she wasn't acting alone, Daliya. I don't believe in paranoia—I believe in patterns. And in my line of work, loose ends have a way of turning into nooses." I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head.

"You think someone else is involved," she states. Her voice has lost its sharpness, turning quieter. Less sure. "How am I involved here?" Dumb girl.

I smile, slow and deliberate, tilting my head just slightly.

"That's what I'm here to find out," I murmur, my voice smooth, rich—like velvet wrapping around a blade.