The interrogation room was a deliberate void. A sterile, sound-proofed box of beige walls and harsh fluorescent light designed to strip a man of his context, his power, his world. An hour ago, Liam Sterling had been standing at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a king surveying his domain. Now, he was just a man in a rumpled tuxedo, hunched over a steel table, the scent of expensive cologne warring with the room’s faint odor of stale coffee and desperation.
I stood in the corner, an unseen observer in the sterile space. The grandeur of the cathedral felt a universe away. There was no stained glass here, only a one-way mirror that reflected Liam’s shattered reflection back at him.
He was talking, his voice a raw, ragged torrent of denial. "It was Marcus Thorne. It had to be," he repea
