ADELINE

"So, you are saying the camera footage is classified?" I asked the lieutenant assigned to me for the third time.

I have been at The White House for an hour now, trying to understand why I am not allowed to do anything aside from staring at a hole in the wall for 60 minutes.

"I am afraid so, ma'am." When I arrived, I was led straight to the emergency stairs instead of Windsor's office. I couldn't understand why, but now I am grateful I came here first.

The unused stairs contain bullets from a Glock 19, which is the commonly held gun in The White House. Meaning it could be an employee or an intruder who used it.

The latter was deemed impossible because of our second discovery. The bullet that killed Windsor was a Walther P99. Which means the intruder held a Walther P99 or had two guns.

But that is very unlikely. If the culprit sensed the possibility of an encounter, they would have only brought the Glock 19. The fact that they brought a foreign weapon proves two points.

One; They knew their path was clear. Whoever caught them was not supposed to be there. Two, it would have been smarter to kill Windsor with a Glock 19. It could've given me a harder time to find the killer, but instead, they used a much rarer pistol. They wanted to take away the possibility of it being someone on the inside. No officer inside The White House is allowed a personal firearm; they are all obligated to the Glock 19.

But who would the intruder have battled with if no officer, according to the lieutenant, had seen the culprit? Why would an employee fire at the intruder if they thought he was one of them?

Unless the culprit wasn't dressed for the occasion.

I have been trying to ask for more information for the past 30 minutes but all the answers I receive are, 'Sorry, it's highly classified.'

"What about the employee list? Can I get that?" If I can have the list of names, I could also have their schedules and find out who was on this floor with the intruder.

"Classified." What? Why? I sigh and start looking for other solutions. "Can I interview officers here?"

"I am afraid that is not allowed, ma'am." This man is not serious. "Can I get data on the past week's activity?"

He shakes his head and points at the bullet marks on the metal handrail. "You can come and analyze this scene whenever you want, though."

The only reason I didn't give into my intrusive thoughts and bang this man's head against the wall is the fact that I know he is not to blame. Still, I couldn't help myself from storming out of the room.

I am the lead investigator in this case; if they won't make my life easier and get me the data I want, then I will go all Sherlock Holmes on them. I head straight for the elevator and press the first floor.

Right before the elevator door closes, I see the lieutenant rushing to catch up with me.

⟺

"Have you checked all the guns?" I asked the bald chief. He gestures with his hand at the file he gave me a few minutes ago when I came to interview him.

"Not a single gun lacks a bullet in this building. Also, it is not likely for the owner of the Glock 19 to be one of my men. These guns are very loud, and there are a minimum of 12 guards on each floor. Whoever did it had a silencer. We don't do silencers."

He has a thick Southern accent, which only makes this all look more like a James Bond movie. "Can I have this?"

The chief nodded. He willingly allowed me to own a list of names of all the Uniform division employees in The White House, but that lieutenant just had to open his mouth.

"But that is unallowed, ma'am! You can't do that! My boss would be mad. This is a direct violation of the rules-"

I cut him off. "Calm down, if you keep your mouth shut, your boss won't be mad, and I will have solved the case. It's our little secret now." I smile encouragingly at him as he nods nervously.

I have learned that his name is Oliver and he is new here. He used to serve as a lieutenant at the Vice President's residence as a part of the uniform division.

He talks a lot but he is brilliant and unfortunately very obedient to his boss Mr. Ledger. I don't know the ledger guy, but he has got Oliver shivering.

Oliver and I continued to interview a few more officers and office employees who might have been near the crime scene. Correction: I interviewed them, and Oliver talked me into not taking any files or papers without authorization.

Overall, no one knows anything. They haven't heard a gunshot and they didn't witness anyone using the emergency stairs. One even went as far as to say that the stairs haven't been used since the fire of 1929.

I decided I had gathered enough information after the seventh interview and made my way out of The White House. As I was passing the greenery that decorates the premises, I spotted a rose garden on my left.

The Rose Garden that the First Lady Melanie Trump has made herself. I approach the beautiful bushes filled with pinks and reds. A blooming red rose catches my eyes and I reach out to touch it.

It would look pretty on my desk. Oliver would freak out so bad, all the better reason to take it. A bit away I see a gardener trimming a bush into a square shape. I walk closer to him silently.

Beside him is a small bag filled with what I assume are gardening supplies. Before he even notices me, I slip my hand into the bag and grab a hand pruner. Pros of being 5'4.

Carefully I returned to the red rose I found earlier and cut it. Once I got my rose and made sure the coast was clear, I took off. I didn't even risk returning the pruner shear and just left it under the rose bush.

I couldn't stop chuckling to myself like a madman as I entered my car. I don't like flowers, but knowing I shouldn't and yet I did is a feeling I adore.

People think government employees, especially detectives, abide by the rules. Little do they know, official services break more rules than an average criminal. I examined Windsor's file a bit more but this file is so summarized it might as well be on Wikipedia. What is the point of hiring me if you can't even give me useful information to work with?

I sigh and start driving home. Today's conclusion is quite simple. The killer isn't working alone. In fact, I think something fishy is going on in The White House.

This is not the first time I have worked on government cases. They never hid the camera footage from me. Either something else is going on that is somehow timed with the murder, or the government is involved.

I mentally scold myself for even suspecting my literal boss. They won't kill their own man. Not this dramatically. I work in the secret service. If they wanted Windsor dead, he would be with no drama.

What am I even thinking? I look at my watch. I haven't had milk in two hours. I am going crazy. I need milk.

I arrive at the hotel that I am staying at. I live beside DHS and it's far north of Washington. It would have taken me twice as long to get to The Pentagon.

For someone who is immune to alarms, I would rather be 20 minutes late than be two hours late. I get out of my shabby Nissan and lock it manually.

I need to get the car door fixed, I have been postponing my meeting with the mechanic for weeks now. He tells me to get a new car every time.

But no fancy car will ever wear milk stains as proudly as my Nissian. I head inside and take the elevator to my floor. My room isn't the fanciest but it is cozy enough for me.

I unlock the door and walk in. The clothes are still on the bed where I left them this morning. I go to pick them up and throw them on the chair. I need the bed now. I will fold them later.

The longer I hold onto the green shirt the more blonde hairs I get out. What in the world? I shed hair like snakes shed skin.

I might as well be bald like a newborn chick. I throw the green shirt at the chair and head to the mini-fridge. I take out my last milk bottle. It is half way full.

I can drink a quarter today and a quarter tomorrow when I go to interview Amy. I drink a little and then return the bottle to the fridge. That will do me for a few hours.

I change my clothes and faint dramatically onto the soft bed. Soon I drift to Milkland.