MISMATCHED INFO
Mathilda’s POV
The past three days have blurred into one long smear of exhaustion. Wake up. Survive on coffee. Look human for the sake of society. Then work until my eyes sting and my brain thumps like it’s trying to escape my skull. That’s been my routine. Glamorous lawyer life, truly.
For the first time since taking this cursed case, I’m seriously considering hiring a private investigator. But that requires getting permission from my client — the invisible, unreachable people who’ve perfected the art of vanishing behind excuses. Every attempt to meet them has bounced off a wall of vague replies and subtle dismissals.
On Tuesday, I sent an email requesting a Zoom call and asking a simple question: Has the victim been buried? It should’ve been a basic yes or no. Instead
