Sterling doesn’t pause long, just enough to see my reaction. “After reviewing the relevant information, I made the decision to step in.”
He gestures toward Kym, who stands awkwardly at his side. “This is my niece, Kym. She’s currently completing work experience with the NCA. I thought this would be an appropriate case for her to shadow.”
Kym gives a small, helpless shrug. “He didn’t specify,” she says, eyes darting toward me. “I thought this was going to be, I don’t know, an office thing. Something with paperwork.”
Sterling ignores her comment, doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he turns back to my sisters and I with a calm, expectant expression. “May we come in?” he asks politely, but not in a way that seems optional.
I glance at Sam and Naomi. Sam stiffens, then gives a slight nod, her arms still folded tightly across her chest. Naomi hesitates longer, but eventually mirrors her, reluctantly.
I sigh and step back. “Alright,” I say, pulling the door open wider. Sterling doesn’t thank me. He just steps inside, and Kym follows a step behind, giving me an apologetic look that I somehow manage to return.
He pauses just past the doorway, taking in the living room and scanning every detail. From the worn furniture to the new furniture, to the takeout box on the hallway table.
“Is there somewhere we could sit?” he asks, turning toward me again. “I’d like to ask you all a few questions.”
Again, it’s phrased as a request. And again, it’s not one.
I nod once, curt. “Yeah. This way.”
We move into the living room. It’s dim, the curtains still half-drawn from earlier, the couch cushions slightly out of place from when Naomi had her meltdown an hour ago.
Kym sits neatly on the edge of the couch; hands folded in her lap staring up at the ceiling blankly. But when my gaze slides toSterling, I see he remains standing for a moment longer, and it makes me wonder what he’s thinking about. How many houses like this he has been in?
How many victims has he managed to save? Or failed to.
Then he sits—composed, one ankle resting over the opposite knee as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a slim notebook, flipping it open with precise fingers.
“This won’t take long,” he says. “I’d like to start by understanding the timeline. From the very beginning until now. Remember, every detail matters. Even the ones that feel small.”
I watch as his pen hovers over the page.
He watches me watch it.
And I tell him. Everything.
***
After what feels like hours of Sterling’s interrogation, my brain has practically melted out of my ears. In fact, I’m convinced he’s trying to set a world record for most questions asked in a single evening. He doesn’t even look at me half the time, just scribbles in that little notebook of his.
“Did you notice if the kitchen window latch was broken before tonight?”
“Has anyone followed you home in the past few weeks?”
“Did you ever get the feeling someone was watching you when you were inside?”
I yawn so hard my eyes water. My head tips against the back of the chair, heavy, my whole body aching with exhaustion.
“Were there any unfamiliar cars parked on your street recently?”
“Has anyone asked about your schedule—where you go, when you’re usually home?”
“Do you keep a spare key anywhere someone could have seen you hide it?”
By the end, I’m half-convinced I’ve dreamed half the conversation anyway.
Somewhere between question number seventy-five and seventy-six, I text Lilia:
Me:You should just go without me. Seriously.
