MURDER AND LOVE: A KILLER'S GUIDE

The dim light of the interrogation room buzzed faintly overhead, casting shadows across the walls. The air was stale, but I barely noticed—I was too focused on Robert. He sat across from me, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, his eyes darting to the mirrored glass behind me.

Asher leaned back in his chair beside me, his arms crossed as he studied him. His silence was calculated, like always, I let him take the lead. He tapped his pen on the table, watching Robert flinch at the sound. He was nervous—Robert, but was it guilt or just grief?

"Mr Smith," I said, my voice steady. "Let's go over this again, shall we? Your wife's death was ruled a robbery gone wrong, but certain details don't quite add up."

He looked at me, his brows furrowing. "I told the police everything. I don't know what else you want from me."

"We want clarity," I said, leaning forward slightly. "For instance, the fact that you just happen to change your words in your statement."

"I was confused," he replied quickly, almost too quickly. "I'd been meaning to change them, but I didn't get a chance"

Asher let out a low hum, his way of signaling doubt without saying a word. I glanced at him briefly before turning my attention back to Robert.

"And the jewelry," I continued. "Your wife's collection was untouched. If this was a robbery, why wouldn't the thief take the most valuable items in the house?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but no words came out. His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening. "Maybe they panicked," he muttered after a moment. "Maybe they didn't have time."

 "I told you," he snapped, his composure cracking. "I was out! At the store! I didn't get home until after the incident—seeing her lying in cold blood." He rubbed his face with his hand as he let out a shaky breath.

If he is trying to make me feel remorse for him, then he got it all wrong.

"Can anyone confirm that?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. "No," he admitted. "I told her I wanted to go grab something by the mall, and I would be quick.

Asher and I exchanged a glance. It wasn't much, but the hesitation was enough to stoke the fire of our suspicions. I decided to press further.

"Did your wife have any enemies?" I asked. "Anyone who might've wanted to hurt her?"

His head shot up, a flicker of something dark passing over his face. "No," he said, his voice trembling. "She was kind to everyone. She didn't deserve this."

I scribbled a note in my pad, though it was more for show than anything else. My eyes stayed on him, watching his every movement, every twitch. "What about you? Did you have enemies?"

He blinked, the question throwing him off balance. "Me? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just covering all our bases," I said with a shrug. "Sometimes violence meant for one person finds its way to someone else."

"I…" He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't have enemies. I'm just a lawyer, for God's sake."

I placed my hands on the couch's shoulders. "Come on, you're an attorney. Not just any attorney—a defense attorney. You've probably got hundreds of people who don't like you very much."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away for a moment, pretending to gather his thoughts. It was a classic stalling tactic. Asher, seated beside me, shifted slightly, his quiet presence lending weight to the room.

"Do you think anyone would want to hurt you or your wife?" Asher now asking the questions, his words cutting through the air.

He sighed looking at the picture of his wife beside him. "There is a guy…uhm, Jennings. Oscar Jennings. I defended him in court for the illicit transport of drugs. He was found guilty and sent to jail. He told me I would pay when he got out. He had been released for about 3 months now."

"Well, there might be a possibility that he was the one that hurt your wife," Asher told him still maintaining the soft tone in his voice.

I hope he buys this charade I need time to know who I'm dealing with and if he will be my second date.

"We would look into that Mr Smith. In the meantime, you are not to travel anywhere outside of New York Sir." He added before gesturing to me to get up.

He scoffed. "So I'm becoming a prime suspect in my own wife's murder." He stood up looking like he was ready to charge at Asher.

Show that side of you let me see. That dark hungry side that hurts women and kill them. So I can make you go away, permanently.

"Not really a suspect but what if what you're saying is true. We can risk losing you too the man." I added as I grabbed my things from his table.

"Well that would be all for now, we would see you soon."

"I hope not" He faked a smile and led us out of his house.

The hum of the engine filled the silence between us as Asher navigated the streets back to the precinct. I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to speak first.

"So," I finally said, keeping my voice even, "Jennings. What's your take?"

Asher tilted his head slightly, his grip firm on the wheel. "He's worth looking into. Robert's reaction seemed genuine when he mentioned him. The way his voice tightened, his body language—it all tracks."

I nodded, suppressing a smirk. That's exactly what I wanted him to think. "Yeah, you might be right. I mean, the guy did have motive. Getting locked up by Robert probably didn't sit too well with him."

"Exactly," Asher said, his tone sharpening like he was already piecing together a case. "And if Jennings just got out, it lines up with the timing. We should run his whereabouts for the night of the murder, check parole records, see if he's been in any trouble since his release."

"Good idea," I said, leaning back in my seat and crossing my arms. "You follow up on that. If Jennings is involved, we'll need something solid to connect him to the scene."

Asher's brow furrowed as he glanced at me. "You're not coming?"

I let out a light laugh. "I trust you, partner. Besides, someone needs to handle the paperwork and coordinate with the lab. You know I'm better at that than chasing down parole officers."

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press it either. I had to pretend for this to work. I can't get caught slipping again like last time.

"Fine," he said finally, his eyes back on the road. "But you're missing out on all the fun."

"Fun?" I raised an eyebrow. "Since when is digging through parole violations fun?"

"Fair point," he admitted, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The precinct loomed ahead, its harsh fluorescent lights cutting through the dusk. I felt a flicker of guilt, but I pushed it aside. This wasn't about Asher, or even Jennings, really. This was about Robert—and I needed to know exactly what he was hiding without anyone getting in my way.

Asher parked and cut the engine, turning to me as we gathered our things. "You sure you're good with the grunt work? Jennings seems like your kind of challenge."

I flashed him a grin, hoping it was convincing. "Don't worry about me. Just bring me something good to work with, and I'll do the rest."

He nodded, and we stepped out of the car, the cool evening air brushing against my face. As Asher headed inside, already pulling out his phone to make calls, I hung back for a moment.

Jennings could wait. My real prey was still out there, and Robert wasn't slipping through my fingers. Not now. Not ever. I just need enough evidence.

I waited for Asher to get on his way to go check on Jennings' parole records. I made sure he was completely gone before setting sights to look for one of Robert's victims. I had gone through all their names and realized one of them lived close to the area. So, I decided to go check her out.

I grabbed my hat and headed out, determination anchoring each step. Earlier, I'd spent hours combing through the records of women connected to Robert Smith, most of them now scattered across the globe, unreachable. But one name lingered: Rachel Moore. She hadn't left New York, though her address placed her far from the bustling heart of the city.

Pulling up a few meters away from her modest house, I parked and took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy. These things never were. Still, I'd come this far.

I walked up the path to her door and knocked firmly. No answer. I knocked again, more insistent this time. Silence. By the third knock, I heard the faint creak of movement, followed by a click from behind the door.

It opened just enough to reveal a sliver of her face, the chain securely fastened. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharp, her eyes scanning me with suspicion.

"Hello," I began, removing my hat. "My name is Khloe Miller. I'm here to talk about someone you might know."

Her eyes narrowed. "And who might that be?"

"Robert Smith," I said plainly.

She gasped audibly and slammed the door shut without another word.

"Wait, please!" I pressed, leaning closer to the door, my voice low but urgent. "I'm trying to help you."

"Help? What help?" Her voice trembled from behind the barrier. "He's a monster who deserves to rot in hell, but he won't, will he? Not with all his money and power. I don't need your help. Please, just go."

I tightened my grip on the doorknob. "You don't understand. He's done it again, and this time, someone died. If we don't stop him, he'll do it again. Don't you think she deserves justice? Don't you think you deserve justice? And all the others he's hurt?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. I strained to hear anything—movement, breathing—but nothing came. My heart sank. Was she so scarred, so broken, that she couldn't face the past?

Resigned, I turned and descended the steps, feeling the weight of failure press down on me. Then, just as I reached the last step, I heard the door creak open behind me.

"Wait," she said softly.

I turned to see her standing in the doorway, bathed in sunlight that seemed to catch on the strands of her glossy black hair. She was beautiful—Caucasian, mid-30s, with an elegance that hadn't been entirely extinguished by her pain.

"Please, come in," she said, gesturing with a slightly trembling hand.

I followed her inside, relief washing over me. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, and unbearably grey. The walls, the furniture, even the art seemed drained of life. It mirrored the atmosphere clinging to her like a second skin.

"Would you like some tea and biscuits? I was just making some," she offered, her tone flat, devoid of emotion.

"That would be nice. Thank you," I replied, sitting on the couch. My eyes scanned the room—a sparse, lifeless space that spoke of someone trying to disappear.

Rachel returned moments later with a tray, setting it down on the coffee table. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the tea. She sat across from me, her posture stiff, her gaze distant.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked gently. "If you're not ready, I can come back another time."

"No," she said firmly, her eyes meeting mine for the first time. "I want to do this."

There it was again—that flicker of pain in her gaze, like a wound that never quite healed.

I nodded, taking a biscuit to ease the tension. "Alright. Can you tell me what he did to you?"

She stared out the window, her face hardening. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then, slowly, she began.

"It was three years ago," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "I was at a networking event—one of those charity galas for the rich and powerful. I didn't want to go, but my boss insisted. That's where I met him. Robert Smith."

Her hands clenched the edge of her skirt. "He was charming, charismatic. He made me feel important, like I belonged in a room full of people who were better than me. But it was all a lie."

Her voice cracked, and she paused to take a sip of tea, steadying herself.

"After the event, he offered me a ride home. I was stupid enough to accept." She looked down, her face twisting with self-recrimination. "He didn't take me home. He took me to a hotel. Said he just wanted to talk, but…"

She trailed off, her breathing shallow.

"You don't have to keep going if it's too much," I said softly, but she shook her head.

"No. You need to hear this." Her jaw tightened. "He locked the door. He wouldn't let me leave. And then he…" Her voice faltered, but the meaning was clear.

My heart ached for her, but I kept my expression neutral. She needed me to be strong, not sympathetic.

"And after?" I prompted gently.

"He made sure I stayed quiet," she said bitterly. "Threatened my job, my family. And if that wasn't enough, he had his lawyers send me a check—a disgusting hush money bribe. I didn't take it, but I didn't fight back either. What could I do against someone like him?"

She looked at me then, her eyes glistening. "You said he killed someone?"

"Yes," I replied. "And if he's not stopped, he'll hurt more people. I need your help to make sure that doesn't happen."

Rachel stared at me for a long moment, then nodded, her resolve hardening. "What do you need from me?"

I leaned forward, meeting her gaze with steady determination. "Anything you remember, no matter how small. Details about that night, about him. Places he took you, things he said. Anything that can help paint a clearer picture of who he is and how he operates."

Rachel sighed, rubbing her hands together as if trying to scrub away the memory. "He had this… arrogance about him. Like he knew he was untouchable. I remember how he laughed when I tried to resist. He said, 'No one's going to believe a nobody like you over me.'" Her lips pressed into a thin line. "And he was right. That's the worst part. He was right."

I stayed silent, letting her vent. Sometimes, people needed the space to let their pain spill out before they could focus.

"There was a hotel room," she continued after a moment. "The Regal Suites on East 57th. Room 1502. I'll never forget that number. It's burned into my memory."

I jotted the detail down in my notebook, careful to keep my movements non-intrusive. "Did he say anything that might connect him to others? Mention any associates, friends, or places he frequents?"

She shook her head. "No. He was careful. Too careful."

I leaned back, processing the information. I sighed closing my notepad.

I nodded. "Thank you, Rachel. This helps more than you know."

She looked at me, her eyes filled with a mix of fear and hope. "Do you really think you can stop him?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "But only if we work together. You've already taken the hardest step by talking to me. The rest? I'll handle it."

She seemed to relax a little at that, though her hands still trembled as she gripped her tea.

"Is there anything else you want to share?" I asked.

Rachel hesitated, then shook her head. "No, that's all I can remember for now. But… if I think of anything else, I'll call you."

I slid her a card with my number. "Day or night. Don't hesitate."

She took it with a small nod. "Thank you… for listening."

I stood, grabbing my hat. "Thank you for trusting me."

As I made my way to the door, Rachel followed, stopping at the threshold. The sunlight seemed harsher now, almost accusatory as if the world itself was judging us for dredging up the past.

"Be careful," she said suddenly. "He's dangerous. You don't know what he's capable of."

I turned back, meeting her worried gaze. "Neither does he."

With that, I walked to my car, her words echoing in my mind.

As I drove back, I replayed everything she'd said, piecing together the puzzle. Robert Smith wasn't just a predator; he was a calculated, untouchable monster. But he had a pattern, and patterns could be exploited.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. He had manipulated and abused those women—one of them being Rachel, and now he has to pay. I have to wipe his face off this earth but I also have to be careful. I can't risk slipping again like the last time, this time I would be careful. It wouldn't take long like the first time but I also have to tie loose ends. Asher—the people he works for. I have to be careful.

Robert Smith wasn't just my next kill; he was going to be my masterpiece, and I was going to savor every second of it.