THE MAGICIAN'S TRICK

Her emerald eyes lingered on the shoreline beneath the River Bridge, where the night’s beauty carried a dangerous promise. But it wasn’t just the view she was watching. Through the window, she observed the River Café. Conversations were hushed, movements restrained, and the rare bursts of laughter drifted uneasily among the tables. A sigh slipped past her lips, the taste of red balm lingering. She shouldn’t have let her detective instincts stir while off-duty. Yet just as she turned back to the glow of her laptop screen, her gaze caught a man stepping inside. Only a glance, detached and unreadable—though something about his all-black casual attire pulled her attention longer than it should have. But she knew it was because she missed her jerk-stepbrother. Her mind was already typing the words before her fingers could find the rhythm on the laptop’s keyboard. Two paragraphs in, she paused—listening, not to the faint music pulsing through her earbuds, but to another voice that slipped in between. Five words later, her fingers froze once more. Her eyes drifted sideways, catching the man’s hand as it brushed the table, dangerously close to her coffee mug. She lifted her head, her gaze tracing the hand to its owner, and at that instant her emeralds collided with sapphires—an unspoken tension sparking in the silence between them. “Sorry to bother you, but …,” he paused, scanning the room before his gaze settled back on hers, “may I sit here for a while?” “Why?” The word slipped from her lips, sharper than she intended. “The tables for one or two are full,” he said with a faint smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, shadowed with apology. “I can’t exactly take a table for four alone, even if I’ve already made a reservation. So, I was hoping I could stay here until they come … if you don’t mind.” She glanced around for a moment, then nodded, reaching for the open notebook beside her mug. Closing it, then set it down to the left of her laptop. She was about to return to her work when something tugged at her instincts. With a slow, calm movement, she flipped the notebook over, hiding the front cover where her full name was etched—Nylah Madeline Mitchell. Only then did she return her focus to the novel— the one her editor had been nagging her about since last week. Silence wrapped around her typing, each keystroke pulling words out of her head and onto the screen. Without breaking rhythm, she let her eyes wander to the man across from her. Handsome, though absorbed in his phone. Yet the cold, detached aura he carried made her pulse tighten, a sensation she knew too well from countless interrogations in closed rooms. The unease lingered—until he offered the faintest of smiles while accepting the drink the waitress set before him, the small gesture softening the edges of his presence. Was he lying? Nearly thirty minutes had passed, and his friends were nowhere in sight. A sigh slipped from her lips, easing the tightness in her chest. But suspicion faltered when two men finally arrived. Nylah watched their interaction without meaning to, every subtle gesture stored away. Remaining still and silent, she watched as the man rose and moved away with them. Unintentionally, she captured the lingering scent he left behind. Tucking it quietly into her memory. A small smile ghosted across her lips as an idea slipped through her thoughts. Quickly, her fingers danced across the keys, chasing the scene as it bloomed in her mind. Nylah gasped as her phone suddenly vibrated, shattering the fragile silence. Her gaze flicked to the screen. When she caught the name flashing there, a soft breath slipped past her lips. She let it ring—intentionally—choosing to ignore the call. But the caller didn’t give up. On the third attempt, she snatched up the phone and slid her thumb across the green button. Tugging out her earbuds, she pressed the device to her left ear. “I’m off-duty until the end of this week,” she muttered, her voice low but laced with irritation. “You and the others promised you wouldn’t disturb me,” she added. “I’m sorry, Nylah, but we have a big—like a really, really big—problem.” A man’s voice spilled through the speaker, urgent and fast, halting her finger in mid-motion. “I’m at Conrad’s. I need you here as soon as possible.” “On my way.” The words left her lips without hesitation, clipped and final, before Nylah ended the call. She asked for the bill, gathered her things, and rose quickly once the payment was settled. Moments later, she slipped out into the night and ran across the parking lot into her favorite red car. A knot twisted tight in her chest. A bad feeling curled up from nowhere as her pulse hammered. She tightened her grip on the wheel, forcing herself to steady before starting the engine. She pulled up to Conrad New York Downtown in just under thirty minutes, the city lights blurring past her along the way. Stopping at the main entrance, she stepped out of the car, and a man in an FBI jacket rushed forward. Without a word, she tossed him the keys. “Sixth floor!” the man yelled. “Got it!” she shot back, not breaking stride. Her heels clicked against the marble as she cut through the lobby at a fast pace. Her gaze swept across the lobby area. Scanning the employees whispering frantically to one another, their voices breaking against the low hum of uneasy guests. Something heavy lingered in the air, a tension too thick to ignore. “Ugh!” Nylah groaned in frustration when the elevator froze on the tenth floor, refusing to budge no matter how many times she jabbed the button. Cursing under her breath, she spun toward the emergency stairs. It wasn’t a good idea—but right now, she had no choice. By the time she reached the sixth floor, her chest was tight, and her breath was ragged. Still, she didn’t stop. Ahead, three figures loomed outside a door sealed with police tape—two FBI homicide investigators she recognized by face, and a woman in a hotel uniform. Only when she reached them did she pause, bracing herself against the wall to catch her breath. In the stillness of the hallway, their voices blended, low and restless, like the buzz of bees. “Thanks,” Nylah murmured as one of the men silently handed her a tissue. She dabbed at the sweat on her forehead before asking, “Where’s Agent Reeds?” “Inside, examining the victim,” the man replied. “For your information, Agent Mitchell …,” the second investigator held out a file, his tone measured, “you … might want to read the preliminary report first.” “You have to read it,” the first man added, cutting her off before she could refuse. “It's ... for your own good.” Nylah frowned at the odd behavior of her two colleagues. She caught the subtle glances they exchanged. The nervousness and unease radiating from them pricked at her curiosity. It mingled with a creeping sense of foreboding. “Who’s the victim?” The question slipped from her lips--alert tone. Unfortunately, they froze, looked awkward, and were unwilling to answer.