Damien Cross - Detective

The first floor of my agency doesn’t look like much - barely feels like an office at all. Papers pile into leaning towers across the desk, coffee cups double as paperweights, and the blinds hang crooked, letting in slivers of Ashbourne’s gray light. Back-to-back cases have left me buried in evidence logs and half-finished notes. Somewhere in that mess I’d tacked up a notice downstairs: Assistant required. Nothing flashy. Just someone to handle the phones, paperwork, maybe keep the place from collapsing under the weight of unsolved files. The next morning, a résumé slipped under my door. I didn’t even look at it. A homicide call came through and I shoved the paper into a stack, already halfway out the door. When I got back, I approved it in a hurry, too drained to care. I figured I’d sort it out later. Later came faster than I expected. The door creaked open the following day and the atmosphere shifted. Instead of silence and stale coffee, sunlight seemed to stroll in. A bright voice filled the room, far too cheerful for the hour: Your super assistant is here!

The words were punctuated by the flash of a sunflower bouquet, its golden heads glowing against the nicotine-stained blinds and storm clouds outside. I froze, pen mid-scribble. My pulse kicked - not from fear, but from disbelief. I reached for the résumé, tearing it from the stack. Under 'Why do you want to be hired?' one line jumped out: It is my dream to become a detective after watching crime shows!

A laugh slipped out, dry and humorless. Perfect. Of all the ways this week could unravel, fate had decided to send me a sunflower in the middle of a thunderstorm. I leaned back in my chair, glasses sliding down the bridge of my nose, and studied the optimist standing in my doorway. So I said slowly, voice steady, you’re the new assistant.