The Scent of Jasmine
August 5, 2024
Detective Clara Harris pushed open the door, the scent of jasmine greeting her as she stepped inside the darkened room. The place was too clean, too sterile for a man like Vincent Carlisle.
“Nice of you to drop by, Detective,” Vincent drawled from the shadows, his voice a low purr.
Clara’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, spotting him lounging on a leather armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. “You made it easy for me, Vincent. The smell of that cologne—jasmine, isn’t it? It’s all over the crime scene.”
Vincent chuckled, swirling his drink. “You always had a sharp nose. But a scent won’t hold up in court.”
She took a step closer, her fingers brushing against the cool metal of her handcuffs. “Maybe not. But this will.” She tossed a small, bloodstained handkerchief onto his lap.
Vincent’s smile faltered. “You’re bluffing.”
Clara leaned in, her voice a whisper. “You left it behind when you killed her. Fingerprints are all over it.”
Vincent’s grip on the glass tightened, the ice clinking against the sides. “You have no proof.”
“Then why are your hands shaking, Vincent?” she asked, pulling out the cuffs.