Chapter 3: Who-Dun-it part 2

I turned toward the door, and there he was—the man we’d met the night before, the mayor. He walked slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, coughing and tapping his back with each step, as if walking itself were a monumental effort. He approached with a sluggish but undeniable authority that seemed to overshadow the sheriff entirely.

The sheriff blinked in surprise.

“Mayor…” he said, clearly not expecting to see him.

The mayor stopped beside the table, his breathing labored but steady, and then he locked eyes with the sheriff.

“These young people are not the murderers,” he stated firmly. “No one from Mauria could be a killer, especially not someone with such a striking resemblance to our beloved Lassi Mahayan.”

For a brief moment, I felt a pang of gratitude toward our mother, but that feeling was fleeting—a second, maybe less. We knew that being compared to her was the last thing I wanted, but in this moment, it had saved our skins.

The sheriff scowled, clearly displeased with the mayor’s intervention, but he couldn’t argue. His power in this small pond had just been challenged by someone bigger.

“Mr. Mayor, with all due respect, it had to be them. There’s no way that we, the Order, or anyone else could have murdered one of our own,” the sheriff said, his voice tense.

The mayor turned slowly toward me. Without a word, he began to sniff at my white fur. I didn’t flinch, but I felt Mi Fan tense beside me, her ears standing tall, ready to pounce if necessary. I could tell she was seconds away from wanting to hit the old man.

“Oh, Lassi…” the mayor murmured, his voice barely a whisper. He was so close I could feel his breath on my head. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but we had learned long ago how to maintain our composure in situations like this.

The sheriff, on the other hand, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of disgust and irritation. He seemed frustrated by the loss of control, but also resigned, knowing there wasn’t much he could do to stop the mayor.

“Mastiff, I order you to release them,” the mayor said, his voice carrying an authority that, despite being worn by the years, was still effective. The sheriff glared at him, his lips tight, but eventually nodded in reluctant agreement.

The power struggle between them reminded me of those old cop shows, where the poor, accused man is caught between two conflicting figures of authority. There was always a way to break the tension. And, well, if we were going to investigate this town to rid myself of these strange dreams, it’d be much easier to do it with the mayor on our side.

I smiled inwardly. I already had a plan.

"—Gentlemen, just like Matlock, I’ll solve this crime myself," I declared, with an exaggerated confidence, referring to the classic show where the lawyer always managed to uncover the culprit. If the accused had to take matters into their own hands, then so be it.

Both the sheriff and the mayor stared at me, a mix of surprise and disbelief on their faces.

"Let him be, Mastiff," the mayor said after a long silence, finally stepping away from my face. But even as he did, his eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer than was comfortable. There was something disturbingly intense in his gaze, something that didn’t quite match the fragile old man standing before me.

The sheriff growled, his face flushed with frustration. He slammed his hand down on the table so hard I thought it might split in two, but eventually, a mocking smile spread across his face.

"On one condition." The sheriff’s tone dripped with challenge. "You’re not allowed to leave town until the killer is found, or until you turn yourself in."

"Duh," I said, unable to resist. I had heard that "duh" so many times that I simply had to throw it in. There was a particular satisfaction in it.

The sheriff stormed out of the room for a moment and returned dragging a massive iron ball and chain. It was so absurd, it looked like it had been pulled straight out of a vintage cartoon—the kind they air on late-night TV when no one’s supposed to be watching.

He dropped it with a loud thud, the sound hanging in the air longer than it should have.

"And one more thing," the sheriff added, leaning down to fasten the shackle around my ankle. "You’ll have to wear this. That way, I’ll know you won’t try to run, murderer."

I looked down at the giant iron ball on my leg and couldn’t help but smile.

"How cute," I muttered, half amused. We always had an appreciation for a good visual gag, especially one straight out of a comedy sketch.

Mi Fan was staring at me with that look she always gave me when she was completely bewildered. At that moment, she probably only saw Sherry Mahayan—the VIP she was meant to protect, getting an iron ball on his leg. Everyone in the room likely saw the same thing: a poor, thin, fragile white cat, apparently helpless. Of course, that’s Sherry. And by extension, that’s me.

But this… this was entertaining me more than it should have. I couldn’t resist putting on a little show. After all, shutting down the sheriff in a way everyone would remember was crucial.