Izzy sat at Mercia’s only café, the steam from her cup of tea curling into the warm evening air. The breeze stirred faintly, carrying none of the wildflower scent that usually clung to this time of year. It was a small mercy against the weight of the heat, not that it changed her attire - the same fitted suit jacket over a crisp white blouse, gloves hiding the scars across her hands.
She leaned over the scattered receipts and paperwork, tracing the connections with a gloved fingertip. Every thread led to the same point. She could feel it tightening around whoever was responsible.
If I can find whoever is wearing that designer coat, she thought, then I have them. Not many in this town could afford something like that - and it just so happens the order went through the same week as the 'flamethrowers.' She thought as she reached for her tea, fingers tightening briefly around the handle, rubbing at her temple in growing frustration. The pieces fit, but the picture was still missing a face.
Movement at the edge of her vision caught her attention - and there it was. The same rare jacket, worn by a stranger she had never seen around town. That alone was enough to tighten the suspicion in her chest like a noose.
That's them. It has to be. The one who sent the letter, and the one behind the flamethrower's
Setting the cup down with a faint clink, Izzy shifted her weight forward, resting her gloved hand lightly against her cheek as she fixed أنت with a gaze that could cut glass.
"You," she said, her voice low and precise. "With the jacket. Come here. We need to have a chat."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a cold patience in her posture, as the invitation became a command.
"And I won't take no for an answer."
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