The Body in the Glass Tower
The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. It clung to the windows of Corvus Heights like a second skin, distorting the city lights into smears of gold and blue. Detective Elara Vance pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders as she stepped out of the elevator onto the top floor. It was 4:12 a.m.
“Penthouse is at the end of the hall,” Officer Monroe said, voice low. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “You’ll want to see this yourself.”
The corridor smelled of expensive perfume and silence. Elara had been to crime scenes in every part of the city—from abandoned warehouses to strip clubs that never turned off their neon. But something about this one made her uneasy before she even crossed the threshold.
The door to Penthouse 10B stood ajar. Inside, everything was too still.
Annalise Ward had been one of the city’s most celebrated journalists. She brought down politicians with a pen, exposed fraud with a smile. She wasn’t the kind of woman you expected to find dead in her own home.
Elara stepped into the living room, and immediately noticed the details. A half-full teacup sat on the glass coffee table. A laptop blinked in sleep mode on the couch. The thermostat glowed a steady 72°F. Nothing looked disturbed. Nothing looked real.
The body was in the bedroom.
Annalise lay on the floor, her body collapsed beside the bed in a way that looked posed. One arm outstretched, her fingers reaching for a shattered lamp. A thick, dark stain pooled beneath her silk nightgown. No sign of a weapon. No forced entry.
“Locked from the inside?” Elara asked quietly.
“Deadbolt was on when we arrived. Balcony door too. No prints except hers,” Monroe said.
Elara moved to the window. Rain lashed the glass, but she could just make out the city below. Ten stories up. If someone came in from the balcony, they would’ve had to scale a vertical wall slick with rain and leave no trace. Impossible.
Almost.
The only other presence in the apartment was a white cat perched on the dresser, staring with unblinking yellow eyes. Its fur was damp and slightly matted, as if it had tried to wake its owner. Elara bent to examine the area more closely. That’s when she saw it—a slip of paper, partially hidden beneath a toppled planter near the balcony door.
She picked it up carefully, holding the corner with gloved fingers. The ink had bled from the rain, but three words were still visible:
He’s watching me.
Elara’s spine prickled.
