A Scandal in Nueva Aurora

Prologue

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ZANE

Lorraine Adriella de Verra, who loves to wake up early in the morning, went to bed late last night, figuring out something I have no whereabouts. I followed her every step from the living room until she settled in her favourite chair, back to the red wall with its analogue clock. One hand cradled a saucer, and the other likely held the tea she favours to start her day.

As she settled in and picked up a book from the table—likely abandoned there in yesterday's rush—I finally moved towards the small library across from my bedroom, separate from hers. With my laptop in hand, I sat on the wooden chair and began to type.

Detail by detail, I wrote everything I could remember from our recent adventures. Being with her, joining in those extraordinary clue hunts, had brought a spark to my otherwise stagnant life. I knew, deep down, I'd regret it if I let the chance to document our journey slip away.

I let myself emerge as I recall our recent cases that I didn't realize I had already lost track of time.

"What are you doing in here?" I was halfway through typing another entry when the door to the flat's library swung open, prompting me to snap the laptop shut. Turning to face the door, there stood the espresso-haired lady I currently share the apartment with.

"Uh... just journaling," I answered, sitting up straight and reopening the laptop, hoping to deflect any suspicion.

"Why'd you close it so quickly?" she asked, her tone cold and flat. "Got something to hide?"

"Hide something? Oh, come now!" I replied with a playful grin, masking the flicker of surprise behind it.

"You're typing a lot. Are you working on something?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing as she leaned against the doorway, the rim of her teacup meeting her lips.

"I told you, it's a journal," I replied, my tone light but firm. "Of course, it involves plenty of typing."

Her gaze lingered, unwavering, and I returned it with a smile. The silence was broken by a knock at the door of our flat.

"Another one?" she sighed, draining the last of her tea. "Why are they becoming so frequent?"

I watched her for a moment, noting her apparent indifference to the persistent knocking-two knocks, followed by another two.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" I asked.

"Why rush?" she responded, her tone calm, almost dismissive.

"Well, it could be an emergency," I pressed. "It might be my aunt, or my sister, or..."

She sighed, taking a deep breath, then with a swift, effortless motion, turned and headed for the door.

I resumed writing in my journal-though, in truth, it's my secret blog that Raine has yet to uncover. Here, I document my private reflections on our adventures, keeping them hidden from her watchful eyes.

SEPTEMBER 8. A man approached us.

"My wife is often away from home," the man said.