"What's the verdict?" I ask as I walk down the busy street, my voice filled with anticipation.

"The teacher is innocent. We called his workplace and even checked the security footage. He was at the hospital all night, just as he said. There is no way he could have done it." The person on the other side tells me.

As I assumed. It was unlikely, but within the people gathered at my uncle's house, he was potentially the only one with a motive. I had to send him for interrogation to be sure. During my 6 years as a detective, nothing surprises me anymore.

"What about Lucas?"

"He was still in Iowa when it happened. He showed us the date of his plane tickets and everything."

Yet again, highly unlikely, but that only leaves us with one more option.

"What about Damian Messer and Stephanie Willson?"

"According to him, he drove her to the place of her interview and never heard from her again. We called the interviewer to confirm it. They haven't exchanged contacts either. He seemed rather confused when we told him that he was suspected of a murder."

"Where was he the night Jamie passed?"

"Since he doesn't have anything to do with Miss. Willson's disappearance I doubt he would..."

"Where was he?" I grit my teeth loud enough for him to hear me through the phone.

"He was taking care of his stepmother in her house. She confirmed it."

"She could be lying."

"He doesn't have a motive, Lia. What would a millionaire have to gain from killing a medical student he doesn't know?" Although his words ring true, his tone of voice annoys me. He's speaking as if I'm making stuff up on the go. "I know it's hard to believe, especially when it's a person you know and love, but all the evidence points that it was with utmost certainty, a suicide."

"Then why the hell was her pinky chopped off Decker?!" I snap, gripping my phone case with such force, that I hear the protector starting to crack. "It's an important detail everyone conveniently seems to ignore!"

"It could have been gnawed off by a rat for all we know," now he raises his tone to match my energy. "The place was swarming with them when forensics came. And can you please stop calling me with my last name as if we weren't married for the past 7 years?!"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm already giving you more information than I should have. They suspended you from the case for a reason. Stop using your time off to solve things on your own and let us handle it. Go home and get some rest like a normal person. Tammy is waiting for you."

"First off: Don't use our daughter to guilt trip me into giving up. And second: what do you mean let you handle it? How? By ignoring clear evidence and letting prime suspects walk away just like that?!"

"There is no reason for you to raise your tone, Lia..."

"It's Detective Harper for you now." I could practically hear the chill go down his spine when he sensed the coldness in my voice. "Either call me when you have more insight or don't call me at all." I end the call before he starts spewing out that nonsense of how much he misses me. I don't want to waste any more of my valuable time dealing with this drama. Every minute I spend with my hands in my pockets is a minute where the true culprit is walking around freely, potentially searching for other victims.

Willson's disappearance and Jaimie's murder are linked somehow, there is no doubt about it. The only reason I don't suspect her friend to be the killer is the time interval between her confession and the time of death. If it was the case that Stephanie killed her to keep her mouth shut, then why didn't she delete the recording and instead delete everything else? What could've possibly transpired in 30 minutes that hadn't in the past 4 years of their forged lie? Perhaps it was an act of revenge from one of Sylvan's relatives, but his parents disowned him after his sentence, so there is no way they would have any doubts he was falsely accused or seek to avenge him.

I know that at first glance my assumption of Damian having something to do with Jamie's case appears far-fetched, but he's the only one from my list of suspects that has the means to do it. He has access to all sorts of chemicals, including pentobarbital. His PhD in chemistry signals that he's more than smart enough and capable enough to commit the perfect crime. The only thing that's missing in my equation is a motive.

Unfortunately, my background research on him didn't prove to be of much help. He's one of these child prodigies who graduated college at the age of 16. After the sudden death of his father, his stepmother became his legal guardian. There are no siblings in the picture. He came from poverty and built an empire seemingly out of nothing. Doesn't have social media and on the very few pictures I could find of him online, he often conceals his face with a mask and in every single one of them he wears some type of jacket or a shirt that partly covers his neck.

Due to my suspension, I can't interrogate him myself, so I need to find another option. There must be some way I can talk to him without using my status as a police officer.

***

4 hours 38 minutes and 22 seconds. That's how much time has passed since I sat down at the cafe Messer frequents. I carefully observe the people coming in and out, but none of them resemble him. It's already past noon, so I doubt he'll show up today. It's a bit desperate what I'm doing, I know, but until I figure out a better plan I'm sticking with this one.

I'm wearing casual clothing instead of my usual black blazer and high-waist slacks. There is also the possibility that he's intentionally keeping a low profile, so I need to make sure he doesn't know I'm watching him.

"Ma-am, would you like to order something? You've been sitting here for hours." The waitress asks me as I stare at the glass door.

"Just another water, thanks," I say without averting my gaze to look at her. It would be my fifth bottle for today, if I take another sip my bladder will explode.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Yes. When do you change shifts?" She looks at me a little bewildered, which I can't blame her for. The reason why I'm asking is because I already asked all of the 4 waitresses working here, including the manager if they can give me any information on my person of interest. I introduced myself as a private investigator. It's as far as I can go when it comes to gaining someone's trust without showing my badge.

"In another hour or so."

I track her from the corner of my eye as she leaves. Not a second after I see her enter my blind spot I hear a glass breaking, followed by a scream. I throw a glance to see the waitress I was just talking to, yell at one of her coworkers. Her face was redder than a firecracker.

The poor girl she yelled at had both of her hands covered in scorching hot coffee, steam still coming out of her pale skin that was now the color of a raw chicken strip. As much as I'd like to keep my post, which I so far unsuccessfully managed to convince myself isn't fruitless, I know I have to intervene.

"What's wrong with you?! You can't do a single thing right! How many times did you break a piece of our equipment just this week?! You're not only useless, your entire existence is a damn safety hazard!" The woman seethed, while the girl wearing a white mask simply stood there trembling from both the pain and humiliation.

"That's enough," I say, trying to stay polite. "Can't you see she's burnt? You can settle this once she's taken care of her injuries."

"She's fine, she goes through this every day," the waitress waved her hand dismissively, which was enough to get on my nerves and cause me to raise my voice.

"Nonsense!" I grab the trembling girl by the shoulder, leading her towards the bathroom where I swiftly nudge away anyone who's loitering around the sink and pour cold water over the burnt area.

Luckily, it's not too serious. The steam around her arms led me to believe her skin was about to melt. She stares at me through the mirror with her beautiful gray eyes like two galaxies adorned with stars. I don't know what a girl like her does in a place like this. She appears to be in her early twenties or perhaps even younger, judging by her soft voice. There is no makeup on her face, yet she's prettier than all the models I've seen on the TV or arrested for drug possession.

You'd think girls like her have it easy in life, but my experience shows the quite opposite. It's precisely because of their looks they become an object of scorn and envy. That alone is enough to lead them down a dark path filled with abuse and exploitation from which there is no recovery. The worst cases are what I assume happened to Willson.

"Your name is Rin, right?" This time she remembered to put on her name tag. "You shouldn't let people treat you like that, even when you did something wrong."

"I'm sorry, I'm such a klutz. You didn't have to go out of your way for someone like me."

"It's just a force of habit to rush in and help someone when I see they are in trouble." The way she acts like a little child who's been told to stay in the corner reminds me so much of Jamie.

"You're so kind." Her tone is so sweet, I can listen to her for days. "Most people would never take it upon themselves to help out someone like me. Especially women."

"I'm not like most people," I realize that we've been here longer than necessary. Of course, she is shy enough not to say anything, but I can't help but feel a little awkward for standing here for what was probably 15 minutes, refusing to let go of her soft hand. "Just promise me you will stand up for yourself more, okay?" I say as I reluctantly turn off the tap and let go.

"I will, thank you." She puts her hands together and gives me a bow. I'm not very familiar with the etiquette in her country, so I return the gesture. I can't avert my eyes from hers as I notice her cheeks move up to form a smile. I must be careful though, it's eyes like these that led to the downfall of my marriage.

"It's no problem. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"Wait, "Rin stops me before I head out." You were looking for that eccentric tall businessman earlier, with blue eyes and a leather jacket." She's so blunt.

"Well, I'm still looking for him."

"He rarely comes here, himself. He usually sends an assistant to pick up his coffee."

"Did he come today?"

"Not yet, why?" I barely wait for her to finish her sentence, before I sprint out of the bathroom.

I should have taken into consideration the fact that people like him usually wouldn't take off their precious time to go to a coffee shop. My mind is clouded by the recent events. I wonder if there's something else that I'm missing. If it wasn't for that waitress I would've spent the rest of the day meandering around until closing hours.

My eyes immediately start inspecting the dozens of people in the shop. Of them 17 are adults, within those adults, 4 are wearing a suit. Now from those 4 I only need to search for a certain badge. I can't prevent the corners of my lips from forming a wicked smile as I finally spot my target right at the counter - "Messer Pharmaceuticals", personal assistant. Spot on.

I strengthen my back and get ready to put on my best performance. Which character should I play this time? A journalist? A crazy ex with a baby, searching for child support? Maybe the usual former classmate looking to catch up with their old friend? No, I need to think of something else.

"Excuse me, you're working for "Messer Pharmaceuticals", correct? I'm from the FDA, do you mind me asking you a few questions regarding a certain supplement you're selling." I asked the man before he could get the chance to ignore me. He's probably around the same age as that waitress I just spoke to, if I'm lucky he would be naïve enough to spill every detail out before giving it a second thought.

"I'm sorry, for that you must speak with my boss or some of the higher-ups, I'm just an entry-level assistant."

"But, see that's the issue. We've been trying to contact Mr. Messer for the past week to no avail. We must arrange a meeting as soon as possible. Can you please provide me with his working hours and phone number, so I know when to contact him?" I try to sound as stern as possible. That usually intimidates them to talk more.

"Uhm, I'm not sure if I should give out that sort of information..." A simple glare on my side makes him change his mind and he writes me down his number on a piece of paper. "He's working from 8 till 6 on work days and sometimes during the weekends. He usually takes a break during lunchtime to go to the gym next to our building."

"Thank you so much." I give him the cheesiest smile I can muster and wave goodbye.

***

I type in the phone number after I turn on the engine of my car. Next to me are scattered all the paperwork around the case, along with my clothes and some leftovers from the other night. I didn't bother driving 2 hours back home. It would have been a waste of time and I simply ended up sleeping in my car, if you can call the half an hour break from background research sleep.

My watch shows it's still around lunchtime, if there isn't any traffic I should be able to arrive at the gym before he leaves and goes back to his workplace. There is no reason to delay the interrogation. I sip on my third cup of coffee as I type in the address. It's very close to the family restaurant where my uncle used to take us when we were kids. I took my daughter and ex-husband there last year just for the nostalgia. It's also the last place where I saw Jamie. Alive.

I feel a tightness around my chest as my mind travels back to the time when we sat at that table. I was bickering with my ex over nothing while Jamie was playing with Tamara, the nice she so rarely got to see, but loved more than anything in the world. When I close my eyes, I can still see her smile. Her genuine smile that she seldomly showed to others. The smile of the little girl I grew up with. The one I knew since she was a baby.

My head rests upon the leather wheel as I inhale, my lungs filling with the odor of leftover food mixed with my air freshener. I exhale, and for the first time since I heard the news of my cousin's passing, I cry.