The train, a bullet slicing through the European countryside, hummed all around her as Vivian studied the case files of the first victim, Cassandra Holt. Vivian was getting better about viewing these files as data and nothing more. If she allowed herself the time to dwell on how a woman’s life had been reduced to just a series of digital breadcrumbs, she found that she tried almost too hard, that she began to take the cases too personally.
So instead, she scoured the reports, witness statements, and all other available information in the files. She sifted through like a modern-day alchemist seeking gold—seeking any answer or link, no matter how small, that would help them find and stop this killer.
She absorbed every word related to Cassandra Holt's murder. A forty-one-year-old art appraiser, killed in pretty much the exact same manner as Elena Rivera. Stabbed in her office after hours. Based on initial findings, it did not appear as if anything in the building had been stolen, despite the presence of highly appraised pottery, paintings, and archeological artifacts.
A shift in the scenery outside—a fleeting tapestry of greenery and quaint villages—pulled her gaze momentarily from the screen. She looked out and had a momentary sting of envy, of regret, even. She’d followed in her father’s footsteps quite fast, beginning her career of thievery at the age of twenty-two. While it had called for a lot of travel, she’d never actually gotten to enjoy many of the out-of-the-ordinary places she’d visited. She never had much of a chance to slow down and enjoy the many places her jobs had taken her. Now, it seemed, she had another job that was going to make it hard to enjoy those things as well.
She pushed this down deep and looked over to Sterling. He, too, was looking at case files. She was aware that she knew very little about his personal life. She sometimes wondered if he allowed himself a life outside of INTERPOL. He was quite funny at times and seemed to appreciate good, witty banter—so it was clear that he was accustomed to being in social situations outside of work. But she wondered what he might be like off the clock, what his behavior might be like at a pub or fancy garden party.
She’d noted at the start of their trip that he’d been looking at online auction listings for some of the pieces they’d seen at Elena’s gallery. He looked deep in study, so she chose not to bother him. She returned her attention to the case files, looking at photographs of the crime scene. She angled herself against the window so that no one else on the train could take a peek.
Twenty minutes later, the train's metallic hiss and the jolt of brakes snapped Vivian's attention away from the files again. They'd arrived at the Gare du Nord station in Paris. Sterling tucked his phone away and got to his feet. She joined him and they filed out together among the other passengers.
The station was quite busy, all bustle and grandeur, but she barely noticed it. With Sterling at her side, she stepped onto the platform, the urgency of their mission propelling them forward. “Let’s try to get a taxi right away,” Sterling said, already sounding annoyed.
“You hate taxis, I take it?”
“I don’t mind taxis. But trying to get one in Paris is…well, it’s stress-inducing.”
Vivian had traveled the world and had been in situations where she had to move fast, but she had no problem letting Sterling take the lead in getting them out of the station and onto the street. He moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times before, including the moment when, just thirty seconds outside of the station, he spotted a cab and waved it down. The vehicle—a nondescript gray sedan—pulled up to the curb. Its door swung open, and they slid inside.
From train to cab, less than three minutes had passed. It was a testament to just how urgent the case had them feeling. Now, in the cab, Vivian found herself eager to speak to the driver. She’d been practicing her French during her time off and though she was still a bit slow in speaking it, she could hold a simple conversation and follow along with fast-paced ones.
She told the driver that they were INTERPOL officers, showing her badge as she did so. She then told the driver where they needed to go. As he pulled out into traffic, Sterling gave her a small, mock round of applause.
“I see you’ve been practicing.”
“I have. It’s starting to come to me a bit easier.”
“A new job, a new language…dare I say, a new woman?”
“Yeah, I don’t know that I’d go that far,” she joked.
The city of Paris unfurled outside the taxi window, a labyrinth of history and modernity intertwined. Vivian caught glimpses of sunlit cafés and the Seine glinting like a silver ribbon. The beauty of the city tugged at a corner of her mind, beckoning her to lose herself in its charm. But there was no time for indulgence; she was on a case, and she and Sterling had been tasked with finding a killer.
It took just under fifteen minutes for them to reach the Rue de la Paix and the building where Cassandra had been killed. It also served as an auction house and small gallery, based on what Vivian had read on the train. It stood unassuming among its neighbors, cloaked in the anonymity of commerce and routine.
They stepped inside to a large open lobby with three different halls spreading out. After flashing their badges to the security guard stationed at the entrance—a solemn nod to protocol—they were promptly led inside. Once they’d been cleared, Sterling turned to one of the security guards with a solemn look.
“Could you tell us where Cassandra Holt’s office is?” he asked.
The guard frowned, clearly having been filled in on the news of Ms. Holt. With a sad tone to his voice, he said, “Second floor, third room on the right. I’ll need to come with you to unlock it, though.”
They made their way to the elevators, not speaking a word. The building, despite its size and the few people they’d passed along the way, was quiet—nearly as quiet as a university library. Vivian wondered if it was partly due to the recent loss of Cassandra.
They came to the second floor, following the security guard to Cassandra’s office. He unlocked it for them and, with a sad little nod, headed back the way he’d come. Upon opening the door to the office, the overhead lights switched on automatically. The room where Cassandra Holt met her end was quiet and, under the harsh fluorescent lights, had a sterile look about it. It mirrored Elena's workspace in its utilitarian design and the ghosts of daily routine.
According to the police reports, the majority of blood from Cassandra’s crime scene had been on the wall; when she’d fallen, she’d slumped against it and slid downward. Vivian could see the stain still there. It had been washed, but a mud-colored hue remained. She assumed it would stay there until the case had been solved just in case forensics still needed the room for further study.
Vivian stepped into the room, her eyes immediately flickering over every surface, every shadow. The space was a disquieting tableau of routine scarred by violence. She started at the doorway, noting the scuff marks low on the frame, perhaps from shoes or something being dragged. It was a detail easy to miss amid the chaos that would have followed the discovery of Cassandra's body.
The desk was tidy, papers stacked with precision, a pen resting parallel to the edge—an order that seemed incongruous with murder. Vivian leaned in, observing the fibers of the carpet, searching for anything amiss. Her gaze caught on a small, almost imperceptible indentation. She crouched down, running her gloved finger gently over the spot. Not enough to alter the scene but just to feel. A heavy object had been here recently, something temporarily placed but not a permanent fixture. It could have been any number of things.
On the other side of the room, Sterling was doing the same. He was currently going to great lengths to study the area between the left side of the desk and the ghost of the blood stain on the wall.
"Both appraisers," she murmured, almost to herself, circling again to see the room from a different angle. "Both stabbed, and both in places where anyone could have seen it happen." Her eyes narrowed as she traced invisible lines across the office layout, envisioning the killer's movements. Boldness or madness? The audacity of the crimes was unsettling—a blatant disregard for detection that bordered on confidence or compulsion. Had the killer been that confident in his abilities, or had he painstakingly scouted the scene and Cassandra's daily routines for a while?
A man’s voice from behind them spoke softly, as if not to spook them. He spoke in French, his tone low and respectful.
“You’re the INTERPOL officers, yes?”
Vivian turned and saw an older man dressed in a basic suit. The collar of his undershirt was unbuttoned, his tie loose.
“Yes, that’s us,” Sterling said. “And you are?”
“Peter Auclair. I work just down the hall.”
“Are you an appraiser?” Vivian asked.
“No, not me. I’m an accountant for the auction house.”
“Did you know Cassandra very well?” Vivian asked.
“I knew her fairly well, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were friends.”
"Do you happen to know if Cassandra had any enemies?"
He shifted uncomfortably, his face revealing the struggle between duty and dread. "It's... it's hard to say," he stammered. "People come and go. Cassandra was well-liked, though. Respected. I can't imagine anyone doing this to her."
The comment was eerily similar to what Lorraine had said about Elena back in Lyon. Yet another striking similarity between the two women and their respective murder sites.
“The police reports indicate that local PD scoured the security footage but weren’t able to place a suspect. Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s how I understand it,” Peter said. “You’d have to talk to security about all of that.”
Sterling reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a business card. He handed it over to Peter and said, “Please, if you think of anything else, would you give us a call?”
“Absolutely.”
Vivian watched Peter back out of the office, walking slowly and almost methodically as if he were making his way to his seat at Cassandra’s funeral.
"Well, there’s not much here,” Sterling said, hands on his hips as he looked around the room. “I do think, though, that I’ll have a word with security when we leave. I’d like to get a look at that security footage. Through that huge lobby downstairs, then to the elevators, then down the hall. How the hell did they not see anything?”
“Good question. And you know, the police reports list Cassandra’s sister several times, stating she was a valuable source of information.”
“Information that ultimately led nowhere,” Sterling pointed out.
"Still. We're in Paris, and she doesn't live too far away from here. I say we visit her next."
She knew that the sister, Lilian, had been cooperative but had also not been able to offer anything of use for the local PD. But with a few days having passed now, maybe it would be different. Vivian felt the investigation's momentum slipping. They needed a fresh perspective, something personal to unlock the enigma these murders presented—and a grieving sister would hopefully do the trick.
Lilian might hold the key and not even know it, or she may have just another piece of an increasingly confounding puzzle. With a killer who, as of now, seemed to have no clear motive, it was hard to make educated guesses at this point. They were on the heels of an unpredictable killer, and Vivian had no doubt that it would be one of those cases where even the most minor of details could mean the difference between life and death.