POUND POUND POUND

The door shudders, a living thing battered by the fists of fate. Ravenelle stirs, a dark lily unfurling from the depths of slumber. She slips from bed, a whisper of silk, and stalks to the threshold, annoyance an anvil on her brow.

Two faces greet her, etched in the lines of the Law. “Ms. Ravenelle? Detectives Morris & Hayes. We need you to come with us. It’s about the murder of Edward Sinclair.”

Murder. The word hangs in the air, a noose tightening. Ravenelle’s mind whirs, gears grinding, sparks flying. The Sinclair situation was sewn up tight, a tapestry without loose threads. This twist in the yarn reeks of sabotage.

“Murder? I’m afraid I don’t see how I fit into this tragic puzzle,” she demurs, a porcelain doll with a heart of steel.

The detectives’ eyes narrow, suspicion a snake slithering between them. “Your car was seen skulking around Sinclair’s home the night he died. You two had words at the Grandeur the eve before. Coincidence? We think not.”

Ravenelle bristles, a cat with hackles raised. “A tête-à-tête does not a killer make, gentlemen.”

But their insistence is a vice, squeezing, squeezing. As she dresses, sprays herself in a mist of deceit, her thoughts are a tempest. Someone has moved against her, a hidden hand plucking at the strings of her fate. But to what end?

The precinct gulps her down, a concrete beast with a belly full of secrets. In the bowels of the interrogation room, Ravenelle sits, a queen on a throne of lies, and stares down her accusers.

Morris lays out his hand, a royal flush of damnation. Sinclair, shot dead. Security cameras catching Ravenelle on the scene. A visit at a witching hour, reeking of ill intent. The evidence is a noose, tightening, tightening.

But Ravenelle is a magician, conjuring alibis out of thin air. “A simple errand, detectives. Sinclair requested documents, and I, ever the diligent courier, obliged. Nothing more.”

Their doubt is a living thing, coiled in the room like smoke. But the case against her is a house of cards, and she knows just where to blow. She leaves the station with her head high & her eyes sharp, a huntress on the scent of betrayal.

Back at the Grandeur, she seeks out Derek, her dark knight in a suit of secrets. In his office, they sip poison & spin plots, two spiders in a web of intrigue.

“The police paid me a visit as well,” Derek murmurs, his voice a velvet rumble. “Someone is playing a very dangerous game.”

Ravenelle’s smile is a scythe, reaping secrets. “Then let us find our challenger and teach them the folly of crossing the mistress of the Grandeur.”

Their words are knives, sharp & deadly, flaying the layers of deception to the bone. An accord is struck, a devil’s bargain sealed with a clink of glasses. They will hunt down this shadow, this puppet master pulling at their strings, and make them dance to a tune of their own making.

The game is afoot, and Ravenelle is ready to play. She’ll follow this twisted trail into the very heart of darkness, and woe betide any who stand in her way.

For the Grandeur is her kingdom, and she’ll paint its halls red with the blood of her enemies before she sees it fall.

Not. The. End.