"Diana finds a strand of silk hair belonging to Cassandra in Richter’s coat, confronting him with sharp, dangerous suspicion."
The air in the private boudoir was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering heat of a dying hearth. Diana stood by the velvet vanity, her eyes flashing with a predatory intensity that reminded Richter of a trapped feline. She held a single, shimmering strand of silver silk between her manicured fingers. It was out of place, an anomaly against the dark wool of the coat Richter had left draped over her mahogany chair. It was the mark of someone else’s presence, someone she did not recognize.
"Explain this, Richter," Diana demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness like a serrated blade. "This is not my hair. I do not wear silk of this p
