They moved us to a different room, one with two chairs facing Detective Miller’s desk. It felt less like an interview and more like a final consultation before a terminal diagnosis. Liam was slumped in one chair, a hollowed-out effigy of the man he’d been that morning. His tuxedo was creased, his face blotchy and vacant. He hadn't spoken since they’d pulled him off the floor. He just stared at his hands, which lay limp in his lap, as if they belonged to someone else. The hands that had chosen a ring. The hands that had signed the contract.
I stayed near him, a cold satellite orbiting a dead star. The storm of his agony was a silent, internal one, but I could feel its gravitational pull. He was a black hole of regret, consuming his own light.
Then the door opened, and she was ushered in.
