The relentless ticking of the interrogation room’s clock seemed to mock the endless stretch of hours I’d been trapped within these four sterile white walls. Wrapped in a threadbare towel, the dampness of my drenched clothes clung stubbornly beneath it, seeping cold into my skin. Officer Sawyer sat across from me, his expression vacant yet increasingly sharp as he peppered me with one question after another, his voice flat and unyielding. Beside him, Officer Ellis maintained a quieter presence, occasionally tempering Sawyer’s accusations with a softer tone.
"Excuse me, officers," I finally broke the silence, my teeth chattering. "Can you tell me how much longer this will last? I’m freezing."
The chill of the room was biting, sharper than the cold river water I’d emerged from hours ago. My eyes flickered toward the one-way mirror, silently pleading with whoever observed me from behind it to bring this to an end.
Sawyer’s face tightened into a scrutinizing frown. He tapped his pen against the table rhythmically, each tap a subtle reminder of the mounting pressure bearing down on me.
"Let’s cut to the chase, Miss Starling," he said, voice low and hard. "Your close friend has disappeared for months. And then, on his birthday, you’re found walking out of the river with his body in your hands."
Ellis leaned forward, her gaze more compassionate but no less firm. "And your notebook—there’s a drawing of him, along with that disturbing note."
My eyes flicked to my journal resting on the table, the crumpled note sealed carefully inside a plastic bag. A jagged scrawl read: Lucy... My Lovely Lucy... Don’t you remember how you killed Charlie Whyte?
The words hit me like shards of ice. My throat felt raw as I forced out a reply, voice hollow. "I swear, it was just a coincidence. I didn’t know... I didn’t kill him."
There was no conviction in my statement. I’d repeated this story endlessly, yet it seemed to make no difference.
Sawyer rubbed his yellowed beard, stained from years of smoking. "Convenient, isn’t it? We spoke to Greenhill and his friends. They all saw you by the river. When they asked if you were okay, you snapped at them and suddenly walked into the water. Then you surfaced holding a corpse, leaving them terrified."
"That’s not how it happened—" I started to protest.
Ellis cut in, her voice steady. "We have video footage, though it starts after you entered the river. It’s unsettling to watch you emerge so composed, carrying that bag."
"I told you—I was just trying to find my pen when I recognized the bag," I insisted, feeling my strength drain further.
Sawyer’s eyes sharpened. "Or maybe you’re the one who left it there?"
"No," I whispered, defeat settling like a stone in my chest.
Part of me considered fabricating the truth just to end this nightmare.
Ellis reached across the table, her hand briefly enclosing mine. "You need to understand why you’re a suspect. Maybe you hold information you’re not aware of yet."
"I’ll cooperate with anything. I want answers too," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.
The officers exchanged a glance; Ellis nodded, and Sawyer shifted in his seat before addressing me once more.
"Without solid evidence, we’re letting you go tonight. We’ll reach out once the autopsy is complete."
"I’ll come back if you need me," I said quietly.
"That’s all for now. Someone will pick you up soon."
My limbs barely obeyed as I stood, every movement sluggish and heavy.
Outside, the night air hit me like a slap—sharp and unforgiving. A blue pickup truck waited; George’s truck. My bicycle was already secured on the back. From behind the wheel, he reached over to open the passenger door.
"Get in," he said, his tone clipped but not unkind.
Despite his usual reserve, a warmth bloomed inside me. I hadn’t expected anyone to come, least of all George, who was typically absent in the evenings.
"Th-thank you," I stammered, slipping into the seat and fastening my seatbelt as the truck rumbled to life.
The ride was thick with silence. I picked at the edges of my nails, eyes flickering over the clutter around my feet—cigarette packs, empty sports drink bottles, and a crumpled condom wrapper.
"Sorry for the trouble," I murmured. "I could’ve made it home myself."
George’s glance was brief but sharp. "Your clothes are still soaked. You want to get sick?"
I looked down at my damp blouse and overalls, clinging awkwardly to my frame.
"I don’t get sick easily," I shrugged.
"There’s a jacket behind the seat," he said.
"Oh, that’s fine. Thanks," I replied, hesitating.
His voice left no room for argument. I reached behind and pulled out the baseball jacket, wrapping it around me. It smelled faintly of cut grass and aftershave—oddly comforting.
"Thanks, George," I breathed, feeling a flicker of gratitude.
Silence settled again. I scrolled through my phone, re-reading the terse messages from the convenience store manager, clearly displeased by my sudden disappearance. I braced myself for the lecture to come.
"Do they think you did it?" George’s voice broke the quiet, eyes locking onto mine. "Murdering Charlie Whyte."
I stared down at my trembling hands, fingers still tingling with the ghost of the rusty pendant I’d held. Charlie’s bloated, lifeless face haunted my thoughts—his empty sockets sinking into my memories.
"They said I’m a suspect," I admitted, the weight pressing down on my chest.
The back of my eyes stung, but I refused to let tears fall. It still felt surreal. How could Charlie be dead? Who would want to harm him?
"Don’t worry," George said, eyes back on the road. "I’m sure it’ll all be cleared up."
"You believe me?" I asked, searching his expression.
He smirked faintly. "You had a crush on that jerk, didn’t you?"
I flinched at his bluntness. Though unspoken, George’s disdain for Charlie was no secret.
"We were just friends," I said softly.
"I don’t think he saw it that way," George muttered.
I had no answer. The silence between us stretched as we neared home.
At the apartment, George locked my bike outside before we stepped inside. He stopped at the door to his unit and glanced back at me.
"Are you okay being alone?" His voice was low, unreadable in the dim light. "You could stay here if you want."
A blush crept up my cheeks. How long had it been since I’d wished to share space with my siblings—to talk late into the night, to feel less alone?
"It’s okay," I said. "I’m too old for that now."
Without pressing further, he closed his door. I stood there a moment, the exhaustion finally crashing over me in waves. Moving to my room, I dragged out my futon, slipping off the wet clothes and collapsing into the oversized shirt I found nearby. Sleep beckoned, merciful and deep, as the silence of the apartment wrapped around me like a shroud.