Le Corbeau: Falling for the lead

TAKE THREE

Tessa was already having a terrible morning, and it wasn't even 8:00 o'clock yet. She stood in front of the massive, modern mansion, clutching her tote bag like it held anything more valuable than the coffee mug inside it. Her phone was dead, her heart was pounding, and the client; the extremely rich, extremely rigid, and incredibly famous client was nowhere in sight. No texts, no calls. Instead, she got the silent treatment from him.

"Who did i offend to deserve this?" She sighed, staring up at the gate. A part of her tired, under-caffeinated brain measured the fence in real-time. Maybe six or seven feet? The top didn't even have spikes; just an elegant, expensive iron curve. There were no security guards in sight, and the visible camera wasn't a problem since he would see her inside anyway.

"This isn't wrong," she muttered under her breath. "It's not like you're breaking in to steal anything. In fact, he is going to be so proud seeing how seriously you take your job."

Tossing her tote over first, she watched it land with an unglamorous thud and hoisted herself up. One foot after the other, she balanced on concrete ridges like a mountain climber in knock-off sneakers and an agency lanyard.

Halfway up, her skirt caught on something, followed by an echoeing squeak as she yanked it free and nearly lost her footing.

"I swear if I die scaling a fence for a client who still hasn't answered my texts..."

She dropped down, landing in a crouch that was more dramatic than functional. Her palms were scraped, her dignity bruised, and her internal monologue fully spiraling. But she was in. Reaching the front door, she found it locked from the outside.

"f**k!"She jiggled the handle and banged her fist against it.

"Hello? It's Tessa. Your assistant. I'm here with your coffee and meds ." She checked her bag, whispering to the empty air, "Please don't fire me."

But the compound remained deathly quiet. Tessa stepped back, staring up at the two-story palace of steel, glass, and white concrete. It gleamed under the pale morning sun like a Bond villain's vacation home. And there, on the second floor, was her salvation: the guest bedroom window, slightly cracked and always open.

"This is how influencers die," Tessa groaned.

She tucked the coffee and meds securely into her tote, zipped it up, and slung it over her shoulder. Approaching the trellis; a decorative grid of metal bars, she began to climb.

Her foot slipped on the very first step. She barely caught herself, heart in her throat. Her tote swung like an unbalanced wrecking ball, knocking against her hip.

"Okay," she muttered. "Muscle memory. Just like climbing the old treehouse as a kid. Except then the treehouse wasn't made of concrete, and I wasn't a full-grown, 179-pound woman in coffee-stained skinny jeans."

She hoisted herself again. Her sneakers found a steady foothold, and she let out a grunt. This was, without a doubt, the most cardio she'd done since a single yoga trial class seven months ago.

Halfway up, a movement caught her eye. but not from the house she was currently breaking into. Just across the yard, a middle-aged woman in a pale pink robe stood behind the gauzy curtains of the neighboring mansion, staring directly at her with a look of judgment so intense it could curdle milk.

Tessa froze for thirty seconds. Then she smiled and waved to prove her innocence. The woman simply blinked, tilted her head, and closed the curtain without breaking eye contact.

"Cool, cool, cool," Tessa hissed. "Now we have witnesses."

She kept climbing, sweat dampening her hairline as her arms began to ache. Her brain, as always, opened a portal to her childhood in rural America.

Back in that sleepy town from so long ago with one main road and two diners, climbing wasn't scary. Her sister, Claire, used to call her a goat because she was always scaling the hayloft or the rickety barn roof like some Appalachian Spider-Man. Back then, she had watched Death Altitude on VHS so many times that the tape broke. Jack Cross, mountaineer extraordinaire, was her north star. His grit, strength, and one-liners made climbing seem like pure freedom.

Then cancer came for her mother like a sudden storm. Tree climbing was abruptly replaced by hospital visits. When her mother succumbed to the illness, it felt like it was all over for them. Desperate to leave that life behind, she and Claire packed three duffel bags and moved to New York. Tessa eventually left for work in L.A., leaving behind the treehouse, her reputation, and Jack Cross.

She hadn't climbed anything since. But being suspended halfway up a billionaire's house brought the sting of those memories flooding back. God, she missed being that girl.

Mercifully, she reached the open window. Wedging her torso through, she scrambled ungracefully and flopped onto the guest room floor like a dying fish. She lay there breathing heavily, her tote slung on her arm and the coffee miraculously intact.

"Still got it," she whispered, though she didn't quite believe it. The girl she used to be wouldn't have second-guessed every step or cared about the neighbor. That girl felt limitless. Now, she just felt late.

Tessa picked herself up, set the tote on the side table, and tiptoed toward the hallway. Her heart raced from a creeping sense that something was wrong.

The bedroom looked like a showroom; sterile and unlived-in. The bed was perfectly made, a vase of fresh tulips sat untouched, and the books on the shelf were perfectly aligned with unbent spines.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to break in," she whispered into the empty air, feeling guilt just for being there. "I just need to find my boss, and I'll get out of your hair."

On the dresser, a framed photo showed her boss smiling next to his agitated Lhasa apso. Tessa strained to hear a dripping faucet, creaking pipes, or footsteps. but nothing came. Just an unnatural, heavy quiet that sent a cold spike of anxiety sliding down her spine.

Creeping out of the guest room like a burglar, shoes in hand, she left the coffee forgotten on the table behind her.

"Hello?" she whispered, then a little louder: "Mr. Langley? "

The massive hallway stretched ahead like a cold, expensive runway. Reaching the kitchen, she peeked around the corner. A chair sat askew at the island, one leg slightly off the rug as if someone had stood up in a rush. A single slice of bread stuck out of the toaster—never toasted, just waiting.

And then there were the pill bottles sitting on the marble countertop in a small cluster, labels turned outward. It was his daily Amitriptyline, prescribed for sleep and muscle relaxation. She remembered bringing him his first dose a few months ago when his old Zoloft prescription stopped working. The doctor had suggested a stronger option with a lower dosage, but Mr. Langley had insisted on maintaining his high numbers. Looking at the cluster now, she realized he had been secretly taking far more than his prescribed dosage. Her stomach tightened.

"Mr. Langley? You okay? " Still no answer.

Then the smell hit her; his signature leathery, smoky French cologne, heavily overused, mixed with the warm aroma of cinnamon and bread. In the living room, a TV played on mute, flickering a sunny weather forecast for France.

Each step felt like a deeper descent into a private unraveling. She reached the door of the home office, her hand hovering over the knob, saying a quick prayer before opening it.

The room was dim, shades half-drawn, casting a moody wash of gray over the massive standing desk and ergonomic chair. And in that chair, slumped and unmoving, was her client.

"Dude," she half-laughed, the sound landing flat. "You scared the crap out of me."

But then her laughter faltered. "Seriously…?"

She took a few hesitant steps closer. His head lolled at a strange angle, his chin sunk low against his chest. His skin wasn't its usual flush; it was ashen, gray, with his lips tinged a faint blue.

Tessa froze. She had seen the kiss of death on the lips of her bedridden mother, and this was precisely what it looked like.

"Okay. Okay. Okay," she said, dropping to her knees beside him and fumbling for his wrist. "This is fine. You're just passed out. You're just tired. Overslept."

She pressed her fingers into his wrist. Not a single pulse. She moved to his neck. Still nothing.

"Wake up. Wake up, Jason, please ." Her voice cracked, using his first name for the very first time. She slapped his cheek lightly, then harder. Nothing.

The reality slammed into her like a freight train: He was gone.

Tessa staggered back onto her heels as the walls tilted inward like a funhouse. Her breath came fast and shallow.

"No. No, no, no. This isn't happening! " She let out a raw, animalistic groan.

Scrambling to her feet, she yanked open desk drawers and cabinets, searching for a spare phone, emergency contacts, or a lifeline. There were only pens, papers, moon-shaped weights, and books.

She looked back at him. His death looked small and quiet, a stark contrast to his cinematic life. This man had every luxury money could buy; a fridge with facial recognition, a shower that played music, pillows made of recycled moon dust. But no landline. No emergency contact numbers on the fridge. Just a body going cold in a leather chair while a muted television promised sunshine in Paris.

Tessa's fingers dug into her scalp as her mind flipped through old, painful memories of her mom in hospice and the panicked early morning call from her sister.

"The neighbor," she muttered, her vision swimming. "The curtain lady. She saw me. She can help."

She bolted from the room barefoot, phoneless, and breathless, making for the stairs. Attempting to lower herself down the trellis, her foot slipped on the shingles. One flat shoe snagged on the edge, peeling clean off her foot and bouncing into the bushes below.

Tessa didn't care. The grass felt freezing under her naked soles as dirt sliced into her heel. But those were petty problems. When you've witnessed death alone in a quiet, perfect house, the only thing left to do is run until someone listens.