Two chairs.
A digital recorder blinked red in the center like a heartbeat I could not escape.
A detective appeared from behind the door. Mid-forties, short-cropped hair, eyes sharp but tired, a professional mask that didn’t quite hide the faint traces of exhaustion.
She gestured to the chair across from her. “Please, have a seat, Elena.”
Her voice was calm, almost kind, but I knew better than to trust kindness in this place. I lowered myself onto the chair, wrists cuffed in front of me, chains clinking softly, each sound echoing in the small room.
She poured water into a paper cup and slid it across the table.
“Take your time. Breathe.”
I didn’t touch it. Not yet.
She waited, her gaze patient, but not indulgent. Then she leaned slightly forward, her voice lowering, as though we shared a fragile secret.
“I’m Detective Ramirez. I’ve been assigned to your case. I want you to know... we’re not here to trick you or twist your words. We just need the truth.”
Her words were calm, rational, but they were weapons too. I stared at the table, trying to anchor myself.
“You’ve had a rough night. I can see that,” she continued softly. “Things will go much smoother if you cooperate.”
I swallowed, heart hammering.
And then she dropped it.
The words landed like a punch to the chest.
“You’ve been charged with murder in the first degree, Elena. The victim: Maria Volkov—your husband, Ruslan Baranov’s pregnant wife. He has formally accused you of her killing. Further investigation has corroborated his statement.”
I felt my lungs seize. The room tilted. The metal table became my only anchor as I gripped its edge to keep from sliding off the chair.
Maria Volkov.
The name burned into me.
The woman whose death had haunted Ruslan for years. The woman he had told me—sworn to me—was killed by my sister. Not me. Never me.
I lifted my head slowly, voice thin and trembling.
“I didn’t do it. I’ve never even been to Greece. I’ve never left the United States. Check my passport. Check anything. I’m telling the truth.”
Detective Ramirez didn’t flinch. Her expression remained neutral, professional, yet unreadable.
“This isn’t the place to argue the facts of the case, ma’am. You’ll have your opportunity in court. You have the right to counsel. A public defender has already been assigned to you. He’ll be here shortly.”
I could feel my throat tightening, words strangled in fear and disbelief.
“He knows I didn’t do it... Ruslan knows.”
She paused, hand on the door handle, expression unreadable, almost unreadably tight.
“Talk to your attorney,” she said quietly, almost gently.
Then she was gone, and the silence returned—heavier, darker, pressing against my ribs like a living thing.
My chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
