Without looking over his shoulder, he threw his hands up. “She needs to be interviewed right now. You’re best around. Go see what you can get out of her.”
11
JAGG
Islipped into the eight-by-five room the chief had built onto the conference room, or “Interview Room One.” The small space had two chairs, a speaker with a feed that led into the next room, a notebook and pen, and a two-way mirror that overlooked the conference table.
It’s no secret I wasn’t a fan of the chief, but adding an observation room to the station had given BSPD a huge leg up in interviews. Well, for me, anyway. While I’d never seen anyone use it for anything other than a nap, I’d used it at least a dozen times. I always took time to observe whoever I was about to interview.
There’s plenty of debate about reading nonverbal behavior, but I’ve always believed you learn more from what people don’t say. Unfortunately, that doesn’t hold up in court. Shame.
In my SEAL days, I was trained to interrogate—and resist interrogation. SERE training: survival, evasion, resistance, escape. Most of us could survive and escape. The real test was resisting—because that meant mastering your mind.
Interrogations evolve, but one truth remains: everyone has a weakness. Good interrogators find it, exploit it, and push until they get intel—or a confession. Some detectives go their whole careers without hearing those three magic words. I’ve heard them six times. How I got there? Not always by the book. Times were changing. I wasn’t.
I still trusted my gut. Educate yourself, know the intel—but when it counts, fall back on instinct.
And right now, mine was screaming.
I shut the door to the observation room behind me, kicked a chair aside, and crossed my arms as I stared at Sunny Harper through the two-way mirror.
Someone had offered her a BSPD sweatshirt. She’d left it at her feet. Still cuffed—this time in the front—she sat motionless in the hard metal chair. The blood had been wiped from her skin, revealing pale, luminous flesh that glowed under the overhead fluorescents. Her hair, still tangled with dried grass and leaves, framed her face in wild curls.
My gaze slipped lower. Even seated, the curve of her waist was impossible to miss. A tight pink tank clung to her chest, the fabric stretched over a pair of?—
I yanked at the collar of my T-shirt, catching myself before the heat crawling over my skin took hold of my judgment.
Focus.
My eyes landed on the swollen bruise wrapping her arm, just below the stitches.
Guilt stabbed through me. Had I done that?
She didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink. Her eyes were steady, fixed on something I couldn’t see. No shifting, no tells. Just a stare cold and controlled.
Something about her was just different.Shewas different.
My body pulled like a magnet to her, my weight shifting to my toes until I was inches from the window.
Nothing.
No tells.
No emotions to read.
Nothing.
And then… she turned her head.
Those green eyes met mine straight through the glass like she couldseeme. My body went still. For a second, I questioned the integrity of the mirror. My stomach tightened.
We stared. Neither of us moved.
Something buzzed under my skin—unease, maybe. Hunger. Both.
Snap out of it.
I pushed back from the window and stepped into the hallway where the low murmur of voices had grown louder. Colson barked orders from his office. The case was already catching fire.
