Clement Street No. 27
Charlotte's gaze lingered on the file in her hand as she unconsciously read the address written there aloud.
Then, as though something had connected, she furrowed her brows slightly.
Ever since returning from Fleet Street, she had felt that something was off.
Charlotte sat in the armchair, holding the file on Emily Collins, her gaze fixed on the address "Clement Street No. 27."
But the girl's gaze wasn't actually directed there.
Her eyes were unfocused and vacant. Only her brain instinctively worked, processing the information that entered her field of vision. Clement Street No. 27 was a relatively decent street in Southwark, with several cafés nearby and a fairly respectable bookstore.
This was the place where Emily Collins had last worked—Hannigan's mansion.
Her brain tried to access all information related to that area, but that information was constantly obstructed by some other factor.
In the girl's mind, scenes from yesterday's interview kept repeating: Miles's questions, Russell's answers, and the cold cup of tea.
And my final words.
Necessary trouble.
Catalyst…
At the time, she had thought there was nothing wrong with her statements.
The metaphor was precise and flawless.
But looking back now, she felt a strange embarrassment.
Charlotte unconsciously touched her ear. It was cold.
But she could clearly feel that something was burning there.
She furrowed her brows.
Why those two words?
What had I been thinking at that moment?
Charlotte's thoughts fell into recursion once more.
She tried to use her innate deductive reasoning ability to unravel her mental state at the time, analyzing the motives and logic behind every subtle expression and word.
But the more she did so, the more confused she became.
The fact that the observer and the observed were the same person violated basic scientific principles.
She felt as though she had been trapped in a maze made of countless mirrors.
Every time she turned a corner, another version of herself appeared, staring at her with the same expression, leaving her no escape.
And the cause of all this seemed to be the man lounging on the sofa.
Charlotte's gaze involuntarily shifted in that direction. Her previously unfocused eyes gradually sharpened.
Russell was sprawled on the sofa across from Charlotte, absorbed in reading old documents about Billson.
He was so focused that he didn't even notice Charlotte's gaze on him.
His hand was very white and clean, with neatly trimmed nails.
The fireplace flames flickered, casting a warm orange glow that softly yet clearly outlined his profile.
She stared at Russell for a while, her gaze sliding from his profile to his long, slender fingers with clear joints.
This hand was the one that added milk for her when she stayed up late, made breakfast for her, and gently supported her head when she accidentally fell asleep…
...
Charlotte suddenly looked away, took a deep breath, and pinched the bridge of her nose.
Something was getting stranger and stranger.
Charlotte lowered her hand and picked up the file again.
Clement Street No. 27.
In Southwark, there was a coffee shop with a blue sign nearby. The owner was a man in his fifties who liked to place lavender pots at the shop entrance.
This information she had collected during a previous visit—it had nothing to do with the current case. She had simply remembered everything out of habit.
Russell might like that coffee shop.
That man seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of such small shops. He liked chatting with the owner or observing passersby while waiting for someone.
...
The crease between Charlotte's brows deepened further.
Why did I need to consider whether he would like it?
She was handling a case.
She was analyzing possible hiding places for Billson and thinking about what the address Clement Street No. 27 meant.
None of this had anything to do with Russell.
But her thoughts, like a wild horse, kept charging uncontrollably in that direction.
For no particular reason, she once again recalled the list that had automatically surfaced in her mind when she was asked for her opinion about Russell in the interview room yesterday.
She recalled how much time she had spent drawing arrows on an invisible logic diagram, blocking every possible path until only one door remained.
She had not pushed open that door, nor had she intended to.
Because that conclusion was wrong.
It must be wrong.
She had overlooked some variable, or some premise—or perhaps she was simply feeling unwell today and needed rest.
Yes, I need rest.
Charlotte set the documents down and stood up, walking toward the window.
Outside the window, London was bathed in the thin winter afternoon sunlight.
Baker Street was sparsely populated. Occasionally a carriage rumbled past, the wheels making dull sounds as they rolled over the cobblestones.
A flock of grayish-yellow pigeons huddled together on the opposite roof, seeking warmth.
She opened the window.
Cold air flowed in, carrying the scent of coal smoke and moisture.
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp air, trying to clear her head.
It was useless.
The cold didn't erase anything. Instead, it made certain memories even clearer.
For example, earlier when I fell asleep in the living room, I woke up in the bedroom bed.
For example, yesterday morning, when she woke up, she noticed his face was very close.
His gaze was fixed on her, a faint amusement—and a hint of helplessness—in his dark eyes.
She should have immediately straightened up, looked away, and said something.
But she hadn't.
She had simply stared at him.
Why?
The most reasonable explanation was that I had just woken up and my brain wasn't fully awake yet.
But if I really wasn't fully awake, why do I remember his eyes so clearly?
Charlotte closed the window and walked toward the information wall.
She stood before the wall covered in maps, photographs, clues, and red lines, staring at the pushpins she herself had driven in.
She had connected those points with black rubber bands and marked important locations with a red pen.
This was the world she had built with her own hands.
Clear, orderly, controllable, and easy to understand.
Every line had logic, every pushpin had its proper place, every case had a solution.
That was the correct way.
But now, she couldn't help thinking about another world.
That world had no pushpins, no rubber bands, and no important locations marked with red pen.
That world contained only one person.
There were also countless other illogical and meaningless details.
He liked to hum while making breakfast, boiled water in the cup before brewing coffee, and traced the edges of pages with his finger while reading.
When he smiled, fine laugh lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. When he supported her head in the carriage, his movements were so gentle and careful, as though afraid of breaking something.
Precious and fragile.
For an instant, Charlotte held her breath.
She raised her hand and pressed it against her chest.
Something was leaping there.
Slightly faster than usual, but not a huge difference.
She might not notice it unless she consciously tried to perceive it.
But if she consciously tried to feel it, it became so obvious that it was almost impossible to ignore.
Just then, Charlotte suddenly heard Russell's voice from behind her.
"What have you been doing all this time?"
…
…
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