You lean forward, elbows on the desk, the wood creaking under your weight. 'You wanna explain why your sister never came up until now, Mrs. Chase?' The words come out sharper than intended, riding on the tail of that mysterious phone call. The bourbon in her teacup ripples as her hands begin to shake.

Her painted lips press into a thin line. 'Because Charlotte... she died. Five years ago.' The admission lands like a punch to the gut. The cameo at her throat seems to leer at you now, its delicate features twisting into something sinister in the flickering office light.

You reach into the file, sliding out the crime scene photo with the pearl earring. 'Then how's her jewelry turn up in your husband's car?' The fan overhead stutters, casting erratic shadows that make the photograph seem to pulse in your hands.

Mrs. Chase's breath hitches. 'Those were mine. A matching set.' Her gloved finger points to the twin pearl in her own earlobe. 'Charlotte took one when she...' The sentence dies as the office door bursts open, revealing a drenched newspaper boy holding a sodden evening edition. 'Extra! Police Commissioner's son found floating near Pier 12!' The headline screams above a blurry photo of a familiar gold wedding band.

Mrs. Chase makes a sound like a wounded animal. You catch her as she sways, her body light as a shadow in your arms. Through the open door, the fog has turned the alley into a swirling gray void—somewhere in that mist, a woman's laugh echoes, high and unhinged.