the last glove (1)

The city was waking up as the sun filtered through the skyscrapers, casting long shadows across the streets of Manhattan. But inside the penthouse on the fifty-fifth floor, the only light came from a flickering chandelier, illuminating a scene of chaos.

Cops crowded the plush living room, their badges glinting in the soft light, but Detective Ava Sinclair was the only one focused on the unmistakable lifeless figure sprawled across the Italian marble floor.

“Ella Harrison, age thirty-two,” the coroner mumbled, scribbling in his notebook. “Found with a single glove. No signs of forced entry.” Ava nodded, scanning the lavish room.