Dolores looked extremely nervous, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the cigarette pack resting in front of her. She clutched it tightly, her fingers shaking slightly as she reached for a lighter, hidden on the side of her couch.
Her eyes darted between us, searching—perhaps looking for an escape from the weight of the conversation, or simply trying to steady herself.
She lit the cigarette with a shaky hand, the flame flickering briefly before she took a long drag, the smoke curling around her as she exhaled slowly. She traced her fingers gently over her baby bump, as though grounding herself in the physical presence growing inside her.
"Sorry," she muttered, the apology tinged with a hint of defensive irritation. "This whole exchange makes me nervous."
"You shouldn't smoke," I said, my voice firm but measured. "It's bad for you and the baby."
"A chainsmoker shouldn't lecture another chainsmoker," she shot back, her tone sharp but resigned, "especially not irresponsibly." She took another shorter drag, leaning back slightly into the couch, the tension evident in the way she held herself. "You don't get it."
Sasha reached for a cookie from the tray, her movements tentative and careful, clearly uncomfortable being caught between my exchange with Dolores and the growing tension in the room. She was always the quiet type, someone who preferred to observe and take everything in, carefully cataloging details in her mind. She didn't want to escalate the situation further or contribute to the drama already brewing.
"Did you get anything strange?" I asked, my tone measured but probing.
"No," Dolores replied, her response sharp and concise, cutting off any further questions.
Yet, her eyes didn't support her statement. They flickered, shifting uneasily—nervous, darting around the room, unable to meet mine fully. It was clear she was holding something back, tension coiling behind her words.
A slight trigger and she will spill everything.
"I don't know, but if I find any link to the case with this—it's a highly high-profile one," I said, leaning slightly on the couch, my voice low and deliberate. "Things will get very brutal—not just for you, but for the baby too."
Her hands shook intensely, betraying her nerves. The words—meant to provoke, to dig—had their desired effect, and it was clear from her reaction she was hiding something. Her movements were clumsy, defensive, pathetically obvious in their attempt to mask the truth.
She wasn't Cassandra, I thought to myself. She wasn't someone cold and calculating—just a normal woman, caught up in the mess of her circumstances, trying to survive in a world that had buried her in filth and despair.
"Oh.," she snapped, her voice sharp and rising in fury as she suddenly jumped from her seat. Her eyes burned with anger, and her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "So now you're just gonna scare me? Huh?"
"When did I?" I asked, raising my hands in mock innocence. "I was just... you know, trying to give you a heads-up."
Sasha stood as well, placing her half-filled cup on the table, her posture calm but observant. The pregnant woman squinted her eyes, her brow furrowing deeply, and a cold, stone-like expression settled on her face.
With fierce frustration etched across her features, she hissed, "Get out from my house."
"Sure, sure," I said, my tone cool and unbothered, standing slowly.
The journey had been a dead end, all for nothing.
I turned to look at her again, and she was nervously holding the cigarette between her fingers, her hand trembling slightly. She leaned heavily against the wall, scratching her forehead with sharp, anxious motions, as tension radiated off her in waves. With a long, frustrated sigh, she suddenly shouted, "Wait, I have something."
I shifted my weight, turning sharply on my heel, my eyes immediately drawn to her swollen belly—large, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
"Yes.," I said, "So there's really something. Isn't it?"
"Yes," she murmured, her voice soft, almost defeated.
She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, adding a quiet air of mystery to the moment. Reluctantly, she gestured for me to wait, her voice low and cautious. She took a long drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling around her as she exhaled slowly—each puff seeming to weigh heavier, as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded, holding back some overwhelming truth she feared to unleash.
"Four months ago," she began, her voice dense, trembling slightly with both hesitation and horror. "I received something."
But it still wasn't clear—what exactly? She wanted to spill the beans, to let it all out, but instead, she danced around the truth, hesitant, fearful.
I narrowed my eyes, watching her carefully, while Sasha stood quietly behind me, observing every detail, taking in the subtle shifts in her expression.
"What?" I pressed, my patience thin. "Can you tell me clearly?"
She hesitated for a moment, visibly struggling to put it into words. Finally, she muttered, "A fifty thousand dollar cash and a…"
But she didn't finish. The weight of it clearly overwhelmed her—whatever it was made her squirm, made one of the nerves in my head twitch involuntarily.
"And what?" I asked again, my tone sharp.
Her eyes darted around the room, tense, before she blurted out in a rush, "And a preserved dick in a jar." Her voice came out fast, almost frantic, laced with a dark edge. "With a note—it's an ugly thing to my collection' from an unknown source."
The sheer absurdity—and horror—of it left me speechless. A preserved dick in a jar? What kind of sick joke was this? My mind struggled to process it, and I could feel my irritation bubbling beneath the surface, my jaw tightening in disbelief. Sasha behind me had gone completely still, her eyes wide, taking in every word.
"It was Noah's," Dolores said with a cold, unwavering certainty.
"And how do you know it was his?" I pressed, skeptical.
"It had a specific mole in a specific place.," she pointed with a casual yet unsettling confidence, tracing a spot on her forearm. "No mistaking it."
"So what did you do with it?" I leaned in, curious, but slightly horrified.
"I basked it in the sun... oiled it up, ate it up like a pickle.," she muttered, her voice thick with disgust. "Of course, I threw that preserved penis jar into the trash. No way I'm keeping something like that."
I stared at her, understanding why she'd thrown it away—she had no clue about its true meaning.
"You think I should've kept it?" she scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "That's just... bizarre. And the money? I used it to fix up my place, make sure my baby has what it needs. Renovated everything with it." Her voice was sharp, defensive—practical, even.
Dolores wasn't just someone who had stumbled upon something strange. No, she had dealt with it in a way that spoke to her calculated, almost chilling pragmatism. This wasn't just happenstance; it was part of something far darker, something she'd figured out on her own.
The stakes were higher than I realized.