The sound of water droplets echoes from the sink. Outside, sirens from an ambulance and police vehicles can be heard near the Governor's residence. Camera flashes go off, people whisper anxiously, and police officers are on the scene investigating a crime. I gaze through my window at the unfolding chaos. Another murder has occurred, this time claiming the lives of the Governor and his wife. I am unaware of the motive, and I have no desire to delve into it. Such inquiries are exhausting, and I prefer to stay uninvolved in these events.
For years, I've resided in a small house close to the Governor's mansion, and as an unemployed woman, I've faced numerous rejections from job interviews. Perhaps there's something about me that others find unappealing. My demeanor, perhaps? The Governor and his wife were the only ones who extended kindness towards me, treating me as if I were their own child. I recall how they often visited to bring me food and clothing, but now they are gone. Murdered by someone unknown.
I leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. Life is fleeting, and we should cherish it, yet here I am, living in this damp house that was left to me by my late mother. It lacks any sense of comfort. The walls are aged and grime-covered, with cobwebs in every corner, and rats scurrying around the ceiling. If only those who cared for me like family had not met such a tragic fate, perhaps this place could feel like home. Suddenly, a knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. It appears the police have arrived to ask about the incident.
Rising from my stool, I left my bedroom and walked to the living room where the door was located. I turned the doorknob and found an FBI officer standing there. He had curly hazel hair pulled back into a ponytail and gray eyes that seemed to reflect emptiness. His jawline was striking, and there was no denying his attractiveness; his uniform clung to a well-built physique, and he stood tall. The officer regarded me with a stoic expression, a look that would certainly charm many women.
He pulled a badge from his pocket and presented it to me. I scanned the details: Name: Lyan Jetsky. Age: 28. Height: 6 feet. I noted this information with a mix of resignation and amusement, thinking at least I met an attractive man even if nothing more will come of it.
"FBI. Can we ask you questions regarding the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dranchez?" he stated flatly, clearly not inclined to entertain any negotiations. His demeanor indicated he was serious about his work.
As I had anticipated, this FBI agent had come to discuss the sudden and mysterious deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Dranchez, the couple who had shown me such kindness. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms and locking eyes with him. If only his visit had a different intention, I thought, wishing for a moment to do something more alluring.
"Sure, what would you like to ask?" I replied, maintaining a calm demeanor while gently biting my lower lip. My gaze flickered towards him, a hint of curiosity evident in my eyes.
"Did you hear any screams or perhaps something unusual happening at the White House?" Lyan inquired with a serious tone, seeming to overlook my subtle attempts to engage him. This man was challenging to read, and I couldn't quite understand why I felt drawn to him, especially since we had only just met.
I pouted slightly, realizing my attempts at charm weren't working. There was something about him that captivated women, almost as if he cast a spell. It was bewildering!
"I didn't hear anything unusual, just the sudden scream of a maid claiming that someone was dead."
"What time did that happen?"
"Well, you discovered the bodies at 9:10 PM, so it likely occurred around 9:00."
"Ten minutes ago, then?" He mused, jotting down notes in a small notebook to piece together the details of the recent crime.
As Lyan continued to write, the outline of his muscles was visible against his uniform, catching my attention. It had been months since I had been intimate with anyone, and I recalled my last encounter at a nightclub, which was far from satisfactory. He hadn't been very skilled, leaving me feeling unsatisfied.
"Are you finished staring?" he asked, pulling me from my thoughts.
I realized I had been gazing at him, my eyes widening in embarrassment. I quickly waved my hands dismissively.
"Sorry, I was just lost in thought." I attempted to sound composed, though my voice wavered slightly with embarrassment.
"I understand," he replied quietly, returning to his notes.
"Now that you have what you need, I'll be on my way."
I nodded at him as he turned to leave, making his way back to the White House. Once he was out of sight, I shut the door and sank to the floor, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief at my own behavior. I felt a lingering desire that I couldn't shake, mingled with a sense of shame for trying to flirt with an FBI officer, even though it hadn't gone anywhere. I couldn't help but wonder about the tragic fate of Mr. and Mrs. Dranchez; they were good people who didn't deserve this. Despite my sadness, I felt a stirring of attraction that made it all the more complicated.
I was still very much aware of my own desire.