The precinct buzzed with activity. Phones rang incessantly, officers bustled around, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow over the rows of desks and holding cells. Victoria sat in the cold, metal chair, staring blankly at the scuffed table in front of her. Her hands, still trembling, were clasped tightly together, the knuckles white. The events of the night replayed in her mind in an endless loop—Amaya’s crazed eyes, the gunshot, Malcolm crumpling to the ground. She couldn’t shake the image, no matter how hard she tried.
“Victoria Watson?” A detective called from the doorway, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. He was tall, with a worn look about him, like he’d seen too much in his years on the force. “I’m Detective Harris. Why don’t we talk?”
Victoria nodded numbly, followi
