THE QUEEN OF LIES

Wednesday mornings in the office were never what they were meant to be. You'd expect a hum of activity, maybe a few calls ringing in, and at least one decent cup of coffee. But Charlie Bateman's office was allergic to expectation. The air inside felt thick with a strange kind of stillness, like the kind you find in abandoned places-somewhere between quiet and forgotten. The coffee machine sputtered out its usual betrayal, offering lukewarm sludge instead of anything remotely energizing.

Phones sat silent like sleeping snakes, and the only movement came from the lazy swing of half-open blinds as they swayed slightly in the morning breeze.

Outside, Ontario did its best impression of being alive-cars honked with impatience, buses exhaled at stops, and pedestrians navigated the gray streets like ants in a puddle. Life continued, messy and indifferent, but up on the sixth floor, in a worn-out building with fading numbers on the door, time stood still. Charlie Bateman, hands shoved in his pockets and his trench coat draped loosely over one shoulder, stared out at the world through dusty glass as if trying to remember how it once felt to belong to it. But belonging was a thing of the past now.

He cradled his chipped coffee mug like it was more fragile than it looked. The contents were cold again but he didn't care enough to fix it. What mattered was the view, or at least what he imagined was hidden beyond it. The Ontario skyline loomed in soft grays, rain clouds threatening but holding back. It wasn't the weather that made everything feel distant-it was Charlie. He stood there, disconnected, like a spectator watching a play he'd long stopped caring about. The city, with all its movement, all its stories, felt more like background noise than anything meaningful.

Each honk, each hurried step on the pavement below, was a reminder of life carrying on without him. A man of action once, now reduced to long stares and longer silences. The windowpane reflected a ghost of himself-gaunt cheeks, dark circles, and the ever-familiar weariness in his eyes. He raised the cup to his lips and murmured, "Maybe this is it." The words were for no one in particular. Not quitting. Not dying. Just... ending. The slow fade of relevance. Because after South Carolina, nothing had been the same.

The South Carolina case. Just thinking about it was enough to make his fingers curl tighter around the mug. It was supposed to be easy. A standard tail job-some guy suspected of fooling around. Charlie had handled dozens like it before: follow the husband, take a few blurry pictures, hand over the truth like a neatly wrapped gift, and cash the check. But this time, the box was filled with explosives. The deeper he went, the more tangled it got. The man wasn't just unfaithful-he was involved with a crew so dangerous, even local law enforcement kept their distance.

Charlie had stumbled onto something bigger than adultery, something laced with blood money and betrayal. He tried to back out, but by then, it was too late. His client, a woman with desperation behind her smile, wasn't who she claimed to be either. She wasn't a killer, but she wasn't innocent. She was scared, trapped in a marriage made of lies and threats. She wanted out. Charlie tried to help her, protect her. And for a moment, he thought he might actually succeed.

But the end came fast and loud. A fake deal was set up-money exchanged for freedom-but it all went sideways. Charlie still heard the shot. One shot. Then the sound of her body hitting the wet rooftop, her red dress spreading around her like a blooming flower. He'd been close-so damn close-but it wasn't enough. Blood mixed with rain. Sirens cried in the distance, but by the time they arrived, the killer was long gone. Her hand was still warm when he held it. He didn't even know her real name.

The press swept it under the rug. No headlines. No closure. Just a private investigator returning to Ontario with more guilt than belongings. Charlie didn't sleep for a week after. He didn't work for longer. Sometimes, he'd reach for the phone at night, only to put it back down. There was no one left to call. No client to follow up. No justice to chase. Only regret.

Worse than the nightmares, worse than the guilt, was the unpaid invoice. Charlie didn't even get reimbursed for travel. Not a dime. The agency that referred the case went dark, and the client, well-she was six feet under. That's when he learned the lesson he'd never forget: always get paid upfront. It seemed like a joke when he used to say it-a detective's inside joke. But now it clung to his memory like rust.

Pain has a way of engraving itself into your bones, turning you into something else. Charlie used to be idealistic. Thought he could make a difference. That's dead now. What's left is a man who checks his phone for clients that never come, who wakes up every day hoping someone needs a mystery solved, only to find that mystery has packed up and left town. The days blurred together like cigarette smoke. Maybe people had stopped needing investigators. Or maybe they just stopped needing him.

He turned from the window, slow and heavy, like a man dragging a history too long to summarize. His office was more of a mausoleum now. The fake leather chair had a tear in it, stuffing poking out like cotton from a wound. Papers piled on the desk, yellowed at the edges.

The clock had stopped at 9:12 yesterday and never bothered to tick again. Charlie dropped into the chair with a grunt, took a sip of his ice-cold coffee, and leaned back, letting the silence fold around him like a blanket. He let his mind drift to better times-back when a ringing phone meant a new adventure, when a case file sparked adrenaline, not dread. There had been joy in solving things once. Now, everything was unsolved, including himself.

"Everything has an end, I guess," he whispered, eyes half-closed, mug pressed to his lips. Then he chuckled bitterly. "Now where did I keep that damn degree?" He was reaching for a drawer when-

DING. The doorbell screamed through the silence like a gunshot. He jolted, sloshing coffee onto his coat. The bitter warmth soaked through the fabric as he stood, already muttering curses.

"Who the hell is that?!" he growled, patting at the stain with the sleeve of his coat, eyes darting to the door as if expecting trouble. But before he could reach the knob, it swung open.

And she stepped inside.