Page 1 of Corrupt Game

Chapter 1: Collette

Twilight settled over Los Angeles as I settled into the quiet corner of my apartment. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were my security blanket. The scent of old pages, a subtle reminder of the library where I used to work, mingled with the aroma of freshly brewed cocoa. I sipped the steaming liquid from my mug, the warmth seeping into my bones as I curled up on the well-worn sofa, a novel lying in my lap.

My fingers traced the spines of books closest to my seat, each one a silent companion to the solitude I’d come to cherish. These quiet moments were a balm to the chaos of my past, years of turmoil that, after a metric ton of therapy, were a distant storm passing. Outside, the hum of the city was a lullaby, the faint buzz of streetlights a beacon in the night.

A knock at the door shattered the tranquility, abrupt and demanding. I frowned while my heart skipped a beat as a pulse of unease rippled through me. I wasn't expecting company. Actually, save for the occasional delivery or neighborly interruption, Ineverhad visitors. But this knock felt different—more insistent, somehow heavier. With a reluctant sigh, I set my mug on the side table and padded across the living room, the cool hardwood floor grounding me with each step.

I opened the door to an unexpected sight: A woman in a suit stood there, her presence dominating the dimly lit hallway.. She wore a badge on a chain around her neck and was flanked by two policemen, their presence formidable, their uniforms crisply authoritative. The woman’s sharp features were set in a professional mask, but her eyes held an ember of something unreadable.

"Collette DeLandro?" Her voice was clear, her tone measured, yet it carried the weight of gravity.

"Yes," I replied, finding my voice despite the sudden tightness in my throat. "That's me."

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she opened a wallet, displaying her ID. "I’m Special Agent Ingrid Bench." she stated. "May we come in?" Her request was courteous, but it bore an undercurrent of necessity that suggested it wasn't really a question at all. She didn’t introduce the officers.

"Of course." I stepped aside, my mind racing. The police? Here? At my door? They entered my sanctuary, their movements precise, their eyes scanning the room with trained vigilance. My space suddenly felt exposed, as if my walls of books could no longer shield me from whatever news they brought.

"Would you like to sit down?" I gestured towards the sofa, my attempt at hospitality sounding hollow to my ears. Fear pounded through my veins, a drumbeat of anxiety.

"Thank you, no." Special Agent Bench remained standing, her posture erect, her gaze never quite settling. The two officers positioned themselves subtly behind her, silent sentinels exuding an air of stoicism.

"Is everything all right?" That was a foolish question. They wouldn’t be here if something wasn’t wrong.

"Ms. DeLandro, I'm afraid this isn't a social call."

Well, duh.

Ingrid's words hung heavy between us, and I braced myself against the closest bookshelf, grateful for its sturdy support.

"Please." The first tremors of dread rippled through me. "Tell me what's going on."

"Ms. DeLandro." Her tone, tight and strained, suggested that whatever Special Agent Bench was about to say would irrevocably alter the fabric of my carefully constructed world.

"You're listed as the next of kin for Andrew Simpson." Ingrid’s emotionless voice sliced through the silence like a blade.

The air thinned around me as if the room had been vacuum-sealed at the mention of Andy's name. My heart clenched, and my palms moistened with sweat. For a fleeting moment, the familiar scent of old paperbacks and lemon-scented polish that usually comforted me was overpowered by the metallic taste of fear on my tongue. The drumbeat of my heart stopped.

"Next of kin?" My voice came out all distant, as though someone else had spoken the words. Next of kin. They wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have used those words unless... Andy was dead. That’s what that meant. "Why? What's happened to my brother?" I could barely piece together the thought before dread seeped into every pore, making my skin prickle with anxiety.

"Ms. DeLandro—" Ingrid began but faltered, seemingly searching for the right words within the professional facade she maintained.

"Please." The single word was a plea, a command, a whisper torn from the depths of my soul, which already anticipated the worst. My knees wobbled, and I gripped the bookshelf tighter, its solid form the only anchor in a world that threatened to spin out of control.

Ingrid hesitated, her eyes softening minutely, the first crack in her armor. "There's been an incident involving Mr. Simpson,"she finally said, each word measured, careful not to reveal too much or too little.

"An incident?" My mind raced, snatching at scenarios that left me breathless and cold. An accident? A fight? Had his childhood demons caught up with him? Images of Andy, my protector, my unwavering support since those early days at the Bakers', flashed before me—a montage of memories that twisted the knife of fear deeper.

"I'm sorry to inform you. Andrew Simpson is dead, Ms. DeLandro."

That sentence detonated in the stillness of my apartment like a bomb, obliterating any pretense of calm I had mustered. I stumbled backward, the shelf scraping against my spine, books trembling on their ledges, threatening to tumble down around me. The room spun, and I fought the urge to retch, bile rising hot and acrid in my throat.

"Dead?" The word was a choked gasp, barely audible over the roaring in my ears.

"Ms. DeLandro? Collette?" Ingrid's voice pierced the haze of shock, an anchor attempting to draw me back to the present.

"Sorry, I..." Words failed me as I struggled to process the reality that Andy—my Andy—was gone. My vision blurred, tears welling unbidden, distorting the stern faces of the officers into watery apparitions. The faint outline of concern etched on Ingrid's face seemed a cruel mockery when set against the devastation unfurling within me.

"Would you like some water?" One of the officers moved, a blur of navy in the corner of my vision, but I shook my head, unable to stomach anything other than the bitter truth.

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