Ricci
The interrogation room smelled like old sweat and burned-out light bulbs. The walls were concrete gray, like they’d absorbed every scream that had ever bounced off them.
I sat alone in the metal chair, wrists cuffed to a steel ring table. There was a smear of dried blood on my collar. But I didn’t remember whose it was. Maybe mine. Maybe not. I’d stopped caring.
The door creaked open. Two detectives stepped in—one young and sharp-eyed. She was holding a digital recorder. She didn’t smile, didn’t greet me Just stared. Long and hard. The other is older with a face like a brick wall and a file thick enough to crush someone’s future.
They didn’t sit right away. Just stared at me.
Like they expected me to break just from being watched. She then clicked the recorder on.
“Let’s get st
