TROUBLED WATERS
Mathilda’s POV
The office air feels colder than usual, or maybe it’s just me. Even with the hum of the overhead lights and the distant chatter of interns in the hallway, everything sounds muffled—like the world is moving through cotton while my mind races miles ahead.
I stare at the case file again, the autopsy photos spread across my desk like a puzzle missing several pieces. The more I look, the more the inconsistencies scratch at me. I already sent the forensic report to an independent lab—one I trust far more than the agency that handled the original analysis. My fingers drum against my notepad as I scribble the next reminder: Confirm from client if victim is unburied—body needs re-examination.
My wrist aches from how tight I’ve been holding the pen. I force myself
