The police station smelled of rain-soaked uniforms and burnt coffee. Brandon sat in the small gray room, his wrists red from the brief restraint, the metal table cold against his palms. The clock above the door ticked too loudly, marking each second like a reminder that his life was being counted down.
The detective leaned back in his chair. “You understand you’re not under arrest, Mr. Hughes. You’re here voluntarily.”
Brandon’s jaw tightened. “Voluntarily,” he echoed, though the word tasted like rust.
The door opened again. Julia slipped in, hair still damp, her coat clinging to her shoulders. She met Brandon’s eyes, breathless but composed. “I’m his witness,” she said quickly, before the officer could object.
The detective gave her a slow, skeptical glance. “You’re the woman from Com
