GENEVA
An interrogation room is designed to strip away all sense of control and any shred of comfort. The walls are a dull, lifeless gray, similar to a cage, in order to elicit feelings of vulnerability and the sensation of being trapped. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, casting harsh shadows that distort everything, causing the mind to play tricks on itself. The cold metal table is too wide to foster connection, but too small to escape the pressure of the conversation. There isn’t a clock or any windows, just suffocating silence. Every inch of this room is meant to break the suspect. I’m familiar with the mental games that are being played.
Except this is my first time on theotherside of the table.
Only, I’m not here as a suspect. I’m here to help. They need answers.
And I need closure.
The door creaks open, and the detective walks in. His steps are measured to show he’s not rushing, that he has authority over the situation. Tall, broad, with a quiet intensity behind his eyes… he’s a professional who’s done this a hundred times.
“Dr. Geneva Andrews,” he says, voice low and steady, sitting across from me with a folder in hand. His eyes dart toward my cheek, and there’s the briefest pause on the fading bruise. He’s already drawing conclusions.
I tilt my head, widening my eyes a little. It’s to show a bit of vulnerability, a flash of discomfort. Although, I don’t have to fake it.
“I’m Detective Brooks. I understand you were involved with Mason Rivers.” He leans forward, clasping his hands on the table between us. A dominant stance.
I meet his gaze. “That’s correct.”
“How long did your relationship last?” he asks.
“A little under a year.”
“And how did it end?”
“I broke it off two weeks ago,” I say evenly. “We both knew it wasn’t working.”
“Not working how?”
I lean forward, matching his posture. A calculated move. Mirroring builds rapport. “There were issues.” I pause, then add, “He had a temper.”
Brooks narrows his eyes. “Did things ever get physical between you?”
I give him a small nod, and angle my head so he can see the fading bruise more clearly, showing I have nothing to hide. “Yes. He hit me the night I broke it off.”
The detective taps his fingers. “What did you do after that?”
“I didn’t want to escalate things, so I didn’t retaliate.”Although if Mason had come at me again, I would’ve beat the fuck out of him.
“When was the last time you saw Mason?”
“The night I broke up with him,” I say, meeting his gaze squarely. “I never contacted him after that.”
The detective opens the file in front of him, scanning the pages. When he lifts his head and his focus lands on me, his eyes are cold. I stiffen at the abrupt shift in his demeanor.
“Where were you last night, Dr. Andrews?”
He’s pushing now, no longer pretending to be curious. This isn’t an interview anymore.
It’s an interrogation.
I lift a brow. “Am I a suspect?”
“You’re not under arrest. We’re simply asking all of his close associates their whereabouts so we can build a full picture.”
A rehearsed line. Noncommittal. Legally safe.
He doesn’t answer the question—just redirects it into something procedural. The detective suspects me of the murder, but has insufficient evidence to establish probable cause for arrest.
