Their uniforms and serious demeanors shifted the room's energy. They were different from the ones who I met at our house. They needed a statement. Pascal's voice echoed from the swelling and the pain medication as he began to speak.
He told them we were sitting together on the couch in my house, talking about our future, when three men we’d never seen before approached us. He claimed they demanded our phones and wallets, and when he resisted, they beat him. A random robbery. A violent but straightforward crime.
My eyes snapped to his. He couldn’t meet my gaze. He stared fixedly at the starched white sheets, his story flowing with a practiced ease that made my stomach burn with uncontrollable acid. He was lying. And he knew that I knew. I saw the shame there, a watery shadow in his swolle
