RINGING cut through the quiet observation between us.
Adel slipped his phone out of the pocket of his brown coat—the kind that gave him the unmistakable air of a classic detective. He answered smoothly in French.
"Bonne soirée."
He listened for a moment, letting the caller speak, before replying in a firm, professional tone.
"Yes. Send me the recovered surveillance footage. And I want the names of everyone who was with the victim during the last twelve hours… including the remaining family members."
Another pause.
"No. I'll interrogate them myself. Good. I'll be waiting."
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, glancing briefly at his watch.
Before he could speak again, I interrupted.
"You seem to know about the accident that happened to the CEO's family."
"I'd rather call it a tragedy," he replied quietly. "But yes. Mr. Kamel was like a father figure to me."
"So… you were close?"
"Yes. Very."
His gaze rested on the metal elevator door, and something in his expression darkened.
Sadness, perhaps.
They must have been close.
My heart softened slightly. I knew that feeling—the hollow ache of losing someone you loved.
Before I could offer my condolences, the sharp ping of the elevator interrupted us.
The doors slid open.
A group of policemen was scattered across the vast workspace, photographing every corner—as if the walls themselves might pronounce the truth.
In a way, they could.
No one dared touch anything.
One of the officers offered Adel a pair of black gloves. He took them, then casually handed another pair to me while slipping his own on.
The officer froze for a second, visibly stunned.
Aside from the people moving around like pieces on a chessboard, the room was strangely neat—far too neat for the messy tragedy hidden beneath it.
Adel walked toward the victim's office. Its door stood tall and closed, as if guarding secrets that were never meant to be known.
The thick door slammed shut behind us.
The chatter outside faded instantly, leaving us wrapped in silence.
The office was enormous.
A thick crimson carpet covered the floor, the color disturbingly close to dried blood. The walls were lined with vintage artwork—pieces that must have been worth a fortune.
The desk itself was intimidating: a projector rested on it beside piles of paperwork. In front of it stood a wide white wall, clearly used for presentations.
Behind the desk—
The shattered glass window.
"Mr. Kamel was a man of art," Adel said, glancing around the room. "Like a beautiful peacock."
"A peacock?"
He chuckled at my confusion.
"Yes. He once told me he wanted to buy one—to decorate his office… or perhaps the garden."
Then his tone shifted.
"You know, I'm certain this wasn't suicide."
I had noticed the same thing—but I wanted to hear his reasoning.
His eyes gleamed.
"First—what you mentioned earlier. The sugar glass. Why would anyone install such fragile glass in a building like this?"
He tapped lightly on another window nearby.
It didn't even crack.
"And yet this one breaks easily. Which means it was prepared beforehand."
A pause.
"This was planned."
He continued, pacing slowly.
"If this were a sudden argument, the room would show signs of struggle. But look around—everything is perfectly neat."
He stopped beside the broken window, moonlight spilling across the glass shards around his feet. For a moment, he looked almost theatrical—the light framing his focused expression.
"I know Mr. Kamel well," he said.
He paused, then positioned himself carefully.
"He always stood like this when surprised… or deep in thought."
One leg relaxed. Arms crossed.
"Miss Lillian, would you move to that corner?"
He pointed to a darker space between a painting and the empty wall, outside the projector's line of sight.
I moved.
"Exactly," he said.
He spread his arms slightly, as if presenting a stage.
"The killer stood in one of the projector's blind spots—out of Mr. Kamel's view."
Then, with a sudden motion, he stepped forward.
"One swift attack."
He straightened.
"By the time Mr. Kamel realized what was happening… it was already too late."
Now I understood why people called him the great detective.
Still, I refused to say it aloud. His ego clearly didn't need encouragement.
He paused suddenly.
"Oh mon Dieu… I can picture it perfectly."
He coughed lightly and composed himself.
"Do you see it too, Lillian?"
The question caught me off guard.
His theatrical moment faded, leaving only the reality of the scene.
"Um… yes," I said carefully. "I can see it. And it's logical. Very logical."
I stepped out of the blind spot and moved toward the shattered window, keeping a safe distance from the glass.
"Well," he said, already reaching for his phone, "that's a good start. I need to make a call."
I nodded and looked down through the broken window.
Far below, I could barely see the chalk outline where the body had once lain.
I tried to imagine the terror the victim must have felt in those final seconds.
What had his last thoughts been?