I came to question you about the murder of Mrs. Rosalina."
Camilla's eyes widened slightly, though she tried to mask her tension by tapping her fingers lightly against the desk. She straightened in her chair, his words sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingers interlaced over the table, her gaze cautious yet composed.
"Who told you I'm a a private investigator," she said dryly, "so I can help you with your investigation?"
Her tone dripped with sarcasm, her expression reflecting surprise at his bluntness — the audacity of a man whose first words were about a murder case.
Ethan hummed thoughtfully, realizing wresting words from her wasn't going to be as easy as he'd imagined.
"I didn't ask you to investigate the case," he said evenly. "That's my job. What I want from you is insight into Liam's life — how severe his condition is. Could he... kill without realizing it?"
She flipped the question back at him effortlessly.
"And who told you that every patient with a psychological disorder is insane — capable of doing things without awareness?"
His brows rose with disbelief.
"So you're saying he killed her consciously?"
Camilla exhaled softly, pausing for a few moments before responding. Ethan could almost see the gears turning in her mind before she finally spoke.
"That's your job, Detective Ethan," she said coolly. "You're the one investigating and following up with forensics. What does any of that have to do with me?"
Ethan sighed. He could already tell she was going to exhaust him before he got a single straightforward answer.
"I'd like to see Liam Rodham's medical files."
Her body stiffened instantly. She placed both hands firmly on the desk, leaning forward slightly toward him, her voice sharp and absolute.
"I'm not legally allowed to disclose any of my patients' confidential records. What you're asking for is unethical and forbidden."
Ethan clenched his jaw in frustration. Her exaggerated professionalism only deepened his suspicion. Adjusting his shirt cuffs, he shot back:
"What I'm asking for is more important than your professionalism. We're dealing with a potential serial killer. All I need from you is information about his mental state."
But she remained firm, her expression frozen, her tone ironclad.
"Denied."
Before he could respond, she snatched her bag and strode toward the door, leaving him behind.
Ethan followed quickly, catching her by the wrist to stop her.
She turned sharply, eyes blazing with a fury that could burn through him for such an obvious overstep.
He released her hand instantly, realizing what he'd done.
"I didn't mean to cross a line," he said quickly, "but just listen to me. What I'm asking for won't harm you in any way. The man is a murder suspect, not a tax evader."
She faced him fully now, closing the distance between them until he instinctively leaned back. Her voice cut through the air like steel.
"What you're asking me to do would destroy my professional reputation. If you want Liam's medical records, bring me a court order — then, and only then, will I comply."
Ethan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair again and again in an attempt to calm his nerves — or perhaps to find a way to persuade her.
"That'll take forever. You're just wasting my time."
He hadn't expected her arrogance to cut this deep. She simply walked away, heading toward her sleek, new luxury car.
"Hey! You can't just walk away from me like that! I'm talking to you!"
He chased after her, but she was already inside, the engine purring. She lowered her window slightly, clearly impatient with his relentless knocking.
"My answer won't change — even if that court order comes a year from now. Bring it, and maybe then I'll tell you what's really inside Liam's head."
Before he could reply, she drove off — gone in seconds.
A stream of curses escaped him. She was stalling, deliberately dragging things out, and every wasted moment could mean another body — another case just like this one.
He kicked a stray stone hard, watching it ricochet off the dark asphalt.
The cold San Francisco air bit at his skin. He shoved his hands into his leather jacket pockets and walked toward the parked car, where Max sat behind the wheel waiting.
Ethan slid into the passenger seat, staring blankly at the road ahead — until he noticed Max struggling to stifle his laughter.
"What the hell's so funny?" Ethan muttered.
Max burst into a fit of laughter, slapping the steering wheel.
"I just saw the great, stone-faced Detective Cole running after a woman — begging like a kid chasing his mom!"
Ethan punched him lightly on the shoulder, earning a groan of pain.
"Just drive," he said coldly.
Max obeyed, still chuckling as the car pulled away toward Ethan's apartment.
---
At Camilla's Home — Pacific Heights
Dressed in a soft grey pajama set, her brown hair tied in a messy bun, Camilla leaned on her kitchen counter waiting for her coffee to brew. The aroma was already filling the apartment — warm, rich, and comforting.
She scrolled lazily through her phone, wireless earbuds in, blasting her favorite song at full volume, enough to nearly rupture her eardrums.
As she skimmed through the day's news, Ethan's face flickered in her mind. The scene of him running after her replayed, and she let out a small laugh, pressing her lips together to stifle it. She set the phone down and hummed along with the music, swaying slightly to the rhythm.
The coffee machine whistled sharply, announcing it was ready. She poured herself a cup and stepped onto the balcony, sipping slowly as she admired the trees below. The night breeze brushed against her skin, cool and delicate — almost intimate.
A strange feeling washed over her.
That sensation of being watched.
She glanced around — left, right. Nothing. Only darkness.
"Work exhaustion," she whispered to herself.
For a fleeting second, she almost laughed at her paranoia. Life, she thought, was gentler now that she lived alone — well, mostly.
She sighed, focusing on the bittersweet taste of her coffee, not wanting to end the night dwelling on a past that had no place in her present.
The first sip was sweet. The last — bitter.
Just like life.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of her phone. Unknown number.
She raised an eyebrow and answered, her voice half curious, half annoyed.
"You promised," the voice said.
"You promised you'd stay by my side... protect me."
Her pupils dilated, a wave of cold panic crawling up her spine. She knew that voice.
"Liam?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
A low chuckle came through the line.
"So easy for you to recognize me, Doctor."
He paused, his voice trembling with exhaustion — and betrayal.
"Why... why did you do this to me? You said you'd protect me."
Camilla's breathing quickened. Her mind raced.
How did he know Ethan had visited her today? Was he watching her?
Silence.
He'd hung up.
She stared at the phone in disbelief — her heart hammering, anger slowly rising to drown out the fear.
"Damn it," she muttered, her grip tightening until the phone nearly cracked.
She tossed it onto the bed and collapsed beside it, her fingers combing through her hair as she exhaled shakily.
Liam reminded her too much of herself — the fragile child she used to be.
He needed protection, the same way she once did. He needed warmth, safety... something she was never given.
She closed her eyes, trying to summon the sleep that had eluded her for weeks. Her body ached for rest, but her mind refused to surrender.
Then the dreams came.
Painful, suffocating dreams.
A child's whimper echoed in the darkness.
She saw him — her father — towering over a small girl clutching a stuffed doll. The smell of alcohol filled the cracked-walled apartment. Glass shattered. The door creaked open as her mother entered — tired, worn, but smiling still. She didn't know what awaited her.
He threw the glass to the floor, rage burning in his eyes.
Gone was the man her mother once loved. In his place stood a monster.
Before she could even say his name, his hand gripped her hair and dragged her across the floor — right in front of his daughter's terrified eyes.
He hit her again. And again.
Each strike echoed like thunder through the tiny apartment.
"You were with him, weren't you? You filthy whore!"
"You're insane!"
By the time he stopped, she lay crumpled on the floor, her body trembling, bleeding, her breath shallow.
Camilla shot upright in bed, gasping — her body shaking violently, drenched in sweat. Her heart pounded as if trying to escape her chest.
A nightmare.
Just another cruel reminder of what she'd buried years ago.
She steadied her breathing, peeling off the blanket, her legs trembling as she forced herself to stand. She stumbled toward the bathroom, washed her face, and changed into a loose cotton dress that brushed just below her knees.
In front of the mirror, she braided her hair, her reflection pale but composed.
She picked up her phone, typed quickly, and hit send.
"I'll be there in thirty minutes. Wait for me at our usual place."