His voice came with a soft chuckle.
"That's good… since we're on the same page."
He glanced down at his knuckles, slightly scratched from the punch he had thrown earlier.
"I'll be back," he added casually. "Bathroom."
A pleased smile lingered on his face as he stood and walked away.
I turned toward Charles.
"You seem like this is second nature to you," I said, lowering my voice as if sharing a secret. "Does this happen often?"
He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease.
"On a daily basis," he replied casually, giving a small shake of his head—half surrender, half amusement.
He adjusted his cuffs.
"But I can't complain, can I?"
A pause.
"After all… he's right."
He met my gaze—his deep brown eyes locking with my golden ones.
And for a moment—
I had nothing to say.
So I simply nodded.
I looked down at my hands resting in my lap.
They were right…but something still felt wrong.
Or maybe I just wasn't used to it yet.
Charles drummed his fingers lightly against the wooden table—a habit I was starting to notice… one he seemed to share with Adel.
"So," he said casually, "you bought an agenda."
"Yeah, I did."My eyes lit up, a spark of excitement slipping through—something inexperienced, something still full of life.
"May I?"
I hesitated for a moment.
But then I thought—what's the worst that could happen?
So I handed it to him.
"Vintage cover," he noted, flipping it open.
I nodded enthusiastically as he skimmed through the first few pages, glancing over the scattered notes I had written.
"Nice handwriting," he said. "I must admit."
A pause.
"And your English is pretty good too."
"Thank you," I muttered softly.
He went quiet for a second… then sighed.
My heart dropped.
Did I write something stupid?
"I wish I could read your notes," he said lightly. "Unfortunately… I don't speak Arabic."
I blinked—then let out a small chuckle.
He looked at me, slightly surprised.
And then—
he chuckled too.
For a moment, I forgot where I was.
I felt warmth bloom through my body.
The cozy lights… the soft chatter… the melody of the radio drifting from the kitchen…The full moon beyond the window, surrounded by its sisters—the stars—and the greenery framing the view.
It was perfect.
It felt like home.
The kind of home I had been longing for.
"So… is there something we're going to do after the investigation?" I asked.
Charles thought for a moment.
"Well, we'll finish questioning all the suspects," he said. "Then head home."
"And then?"
"My guess? The next day we meet at Mr. Adel's office… brainstorm, connect the pieces."
I nodded.
It made sense.
Then he looked at me—really looked at me.
"So… what about you?" he asked. "Are you with us?"
I met his eyes.
This time, his gaze wasn't casual.
It was serious.
Like he was asking a question worth a million answers.
And suddenly—
I didn't know.
Did I really want this?
This life?
A world filled with death… crime… and truths no one wanted to face?
It felt messy.
Dangerous.
But at the same time…
The thought of uncovering the truth—of placing evidence in the hands of justice—sent a strange satisfaction through me.
It felt right.
Like I belonged here.
Like I could be the one to fix things.
Just like him.
But then—
my grandmother's voice echoed in my mind.
"This isn't suitable for your feminine nature, habibty."
My fingers tightened around the fabric of my skirt.
When I reported my first case… yes, I had been excited.
But not because I was a reporter.
Not because I had achieved a dream.
Because it wasn't my dream.
It was someone else's.
A safer option.
A quieter life.
A plan B.
And somehow… it felt dull compared to what I had once wanted.
I wasn't excited about journalism.
I was excited because—
I was getting closer to my real dream.
Being a detective.
I think that's why I envied Adel.
Why I snapped at him.
Why every word he said felt like a challenge.
I don't want to regret this.
I don't want to disappoint what's left of my family.
But I also don't want to live a life that doesn't feel like mine.
And maybe… that was the most dangerous thought of all.
That thought lingered.
It terrified me.
What if… years from now, I don't feel satisfied?
What if I regret it—
right at the point of no return?
My chest tightened suddenly.
The restaurant faded into darkness.
The voices, the laughter, the warmth—
gone.
It was just me.
Alone.
Floating in a hollow emptiness.
Just me…
and the life I might end up living if I never chased my dream.
I remembered my graduation day.
I thought—after all the sleepless nights, all the studying, graduating with honors—
I would finally feel something.
Peace.
Happiness.
Even just a little.
But instead…
I felt nothing.
I watched my classmates run into their parents' arms, laughing, crying, celebrating something they had worked so hard for.
I didn't even feel my uncle hugging me.
I just stood there—
empty.
And then…
another memory surfaced.
I was thirteen.
In Sohag.
It was the morning of Eid.
I wore a flowy dress, full of life, full of dreams.
Someone asked me, smiling,
"What do you want to be when you grow up, my dear?"
I answered without hesitation.
"I want to be a detective."
For a moment—
silence.
The kind of silence that feels wrong.
Heavy.
The guests exchanged uneasy glances.
Then their eyes shifted… toward my grandmother.
My guardian.
The one who was supposed to protect me.
Protect my dreams.
Not reshape them.
"Are you sure?" one of my aunts asked, her voice tight—like I had said something unforgivable.
Like I had confessed to a crime.
That night…
everything changed.
And from that moment on, my grandparents made it their mission to convince me otherwise.
"What will people say?"
"No one would want a woman like that."
"A cold-hearted woman… is that what you want to become?"
I tried to argue.
I tried to hold on.
Because my parents—
they had wanted this for me.
They used to buy me detective outfits.
Mystery books.
Magazines filled with puzzles and unsolved cases.
They believed in me.
But my grandmother didn't stop.
Not until tears blurred my vision.
Not until I broke.
And just when it felt like I had no one left—
someone stepped in.
My uncle.
Still young back then.
Still kind.
"Calm down, Mama," he said firmly. "She's just a kid."
A pause.
"And she just lost her parents. What kind of nonsense are you saying to a thirteen-year-old?"