I closed the folder. “Why are you helping me?”
The door opened to a woman in a charcoal dress, no jewelry but for a single silver key on a chain around her neck. She was not young, not old. Her hair was the color of ink spilled on oak. Her eyes held the flat, patient stillness of a snake in tall grass. mistress katha
“The treatment costs a fraction of what he tells Marta it costs. He pockets the difference. Every month.” I closed the folder
Inside, the air smelled of beeswax, leather, and the faint ghost of jasmine. The room was a library without books—walls lined instead with small drawers, each labeled in a language I didn’t recognize. She led me to a chair. I sat. She remained standing. Her hair was the color of ink spilled on oak
She was right on both counts.
“You want information about Julian Cross.”
She smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of a woman who has seen men like Julian Cross crumble into ash and swept them into a dustpan.