2. The Frustrated Detective

I tore my eyes away from the snake tattoo, but not before cataloging every coil and twist like I was preparing to give a witness statement in court.

Why was it always the absurdly attractive men who had ominous tattoos?

Like some kind of cosmic joke to remind women that yes, red flags can come wrapped in extremely comfortable-looking sweaters and smirks sharp enough to cut glass.

“Maeve,” I introduced myself finally, shaking his hand because apparently, my mother did raise me with manners. Even if my current state screamed ‘dumpster fire in progress.’

His grip was firm, warm, and lingered just a second too long. My palm felt like it was going to combust, and I had to actively remind myself not to immediately pull out the travel-sized hand sanitizer from my bag.

“Pleasure,” Elian replied, still wearing that insufferably charming half-smile.

I turned my head toward the window, hoping he’d take the hint that I was done interacting.

Spoiler Alert: He did not.

“So, Maeve,” he continued, casually leaning back in his seat like he owned the entire plane. “What brings you to the glamorous world of first class flight?”

Oh, he did not just ask me that. The audacity. The sheer boldness.

I glanced back at him, narrowing my eyes. “Oh, you know, just escaping heartbreak, public humiliation, and possibly an arrest warrant for aggravated assault. The usual.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, but to his credit, he didn’t look away. Instead, he grinned. “Sounds eventful. Did the horse make it out okay?”

I blinked at him before my lips twitched into an unwilling smile. Damn it, why was he funny? The universe really was testing me today.

“I can neither confirm nor deny the horse’s current whereabouts,” I said solemnly, clutching my panda neck pillow like it was a support animal of its own.

I turned back to the window, fully prepared to end the conversation right there. But Elian was still staring at me. Not in a creepy way, mind you, but in that infuriatingly expectant way people do when they’re waiting for you to reciprocate.

I sighed, and out of politeness, “What about you? Business or pleasure?”

He chuckled slowly, the kind of laugh that felt like it belonged in a dimly lit bar over expensive whiskey. “Business, actually. But I’m heading home to Grasberg tomorrow.”

“Ah, of course. Business. So vague, so mysterious. Let me guess, international art dealer? Secret agent?” I flicked my eyes at the back of his hand, where the jet-black snake and its forked tongue peeked under his ultra-soft sweater. “Or do you just have a very niche Etsy store for luxury snake-themed accessories?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “If I told you, Maeve, I’d have to kill you.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop my lips from twitching into a grin. Why did he have to be charming and mysterious? The universe was really doubling down on testing my patience.

The flight attendant appeared then, saving me from digging myself deeper into this oddly engaging back-and-forth. I couldn’t quite decide on whether it was entertaining or annoying me.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” she asked with a polished smile.

“Another glass of champagne, please,” I said, trying to channel the effortless elegance of someone who actually belonged in first class. If I was going to survive this flight, I needed bubbles. Lots of them.

Elian raised an eyebrow before glancing at the flight attendant. “Make that two.”

Oh, come on.

I shot him a look, but he just offered a casual shrug, as if to say, ‘What? I’m just following your excellent taste.’

As the flight attendant poured our drink and Elian waited for them, I took the brief window of distraction to pull out my phone and plug in one earbud. The inflight Wi-Fi was painfully slow, but eventually, the local live news stream flickered onto my screen. That’s what I like to do when I visit places, and watch the local news stream.

I leaned against the window, letting my left ear absorb the tinny audio while the other stayed free. Big mistake.

“–the body was discovered early this morning in what authorities are calling an execution-style killing. The victim, identified only as an unnamed male, was found with–”

My free ear betrayed me. The news anchor’s voice blared loud enough for Elian to catch it.

“Interesting choice of in-flight entertainment,” he commented, his brows raising slightly as he sipped his drink after he passed mine.

“It’s fine journalism,” I replied, fumbling with the volume and cursing my clumsiness.

But then, the screen showed a blurred image of the body in a dark alley, blood pooling around twisted limbs, and my stomach dropped.

The ankle.

The tattoo.

It was a small, faint design, but I recognized it immediately. A jagged dagger inked just above the bone, paired with an expensive gold watch that gleamed even in the grainy footage.

No.

No, no, no.

It was him.

The man I had seen a month ago. The same man I had positively identified after long hours of squinting at grainy security camera footage. The same man who had been dragged, or rather, should have been dragged, into questioning for the brutal mafia murder back in Northvale.

Except he hadn’t been questioned.

After I handed over my carefully pieced-together findings to Lieutenant Barnes, the team had scrambled, warrants were signed, and task forces were mobilized. But it was too late. The perp had vanished like smoke, already slipped out of the country before the ink had dried on the paperwork.

That case had been my Hail Mary. Months of coffee-fueled all-nighters, chasing leads until my feet gave out, and putting my entire career on the line with nothing but a gut feeling and shaky video stills to guide me.

But I was right.

And when the dust settled and the department finished patting itself on the back, I’d walked out with a shiny new badge and a shiny new title. Detective Maeve Summers.

Not that it felt particularly shiny right now, considering I was gripping a panda neck pillow and drowning in overpriced champagne waiting for my plane to take off next to Mr. Snake Tattoo over here.

But one thing was clear. The man on the news, the one lying dead and pixelated on the screen, was the same man who had slipped through our fingers last month.

My chest tightened.

I could feel Elian’s eyes on me again, sharp and observant, as if he’d caught the micro-expression of recognition flash across my face. I forced my hand to stay steady as I lifted my champagne flute to my lips.

But my brain buzzed, questions firing off like fireworks.

What was he doing here?

How did he end up dead?

Who pulled the trigger?

And, perhaps most pressing of all… why did fate decide to seat me next to a man with a snake tattoo and a smile sharp enough to cut glass on this flight?

Did I drink too much already?