Miranda reached the car. “Please, Detective Hussein Bey, we're waiting for you.” Detective Mohammed got out, followed closely by journalist Susan, with Miranda walking ahead along the narrow, tree-lined path.
As they passed Hussein's sleek black car, they froze. A suffocating, foul odor enveloped them—a sharp, unmistakable smell, the very scent of death. Instinctively, each raised a hand to their nose, fighting off nausea. But as soon as they passed the car, the smell vanished, as if swallowed by the air, leaving only wary glances between them.
Inside the villa—by the window—Hussein watched them from the living room window, smoke billowing around his head like an ominous halo. He saw them approaching and muttered to himself, as if talking to himself: “Miranda… the detective… and who is t
