Fluorescent light turns everyone into paperwork.
“Start at the panel," the detective says, pen ready. “The HLA."
Marcus sits forward, voice flat. “He never sent it."
Aaron slides a printout across the desk. “Audit log. Missing order. Copy-paste labs. Here are the chat screenshots."
The detective skims, eyebrows ticking. “And Ms. Graham?"
“Co-conspirator," Aaron says.
“Victim," Vivian tries from the bench, wrists together, lips bitten pink. “He coerced—"
“Stop," Marcus tells her, not loud and not negotiable.
A second detective opens the door. “Dr. Johnson," he says, and Johnson walks in the way a man walks when shame and calculation are arguing. He sits. The room smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant and endings.
“You understand the allegations," the first detective says.
John
