I picture myself locking up after meetings with contractors, laughing with Roz about how annoying insurance paperwork is, and going home tired but relieved that things were moving forward. All that time, he was watching. Calculating.
“He blames you for everything,” the detective continues. “Being fired. His girlfriend leaving. Not being able to find another job.”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for days. Of course he does. Accountability has never been his strong suit. Hell, even I tried to make it all my fault, too.
We are both wrong on that score.
I watch Marcus through the glass as he slams his cuffed hands against the table, his face twisting with fury and grievance.
Despite that, for the first time since the fire, something inside me steadies. He’s a caged animal. Nothing more. A beast of a man who can no longer hurt me.
I nod once. “I’m ready. Whatever you need, detective.”
They give me water I don’t drink and a chair that’s bolted to the floor.
The detective explains the process again, slower this time, as if repetition might make it okay. I’ll give a formal statement first. Then, if I’m willing, they’ll bring Marcus back into the room so they can document his reactions and statements with me present. I won’t be required to engage. I can stop at any time. Aiden will be right outside the door the entire time.
Which he hates.
“Seriously? You want me to leave her alone in a room with that maniac? Are you out of your mind?”
The detective sighs. “I will be in there?—”
“That’s not enough!”
“—armed and eager to show him my marksman skills,” he finishes. His eyes narrow on Marcus through the one-way glass.“That piece of shit has a hell of a kick, and I’d like an excuse for payback.”
I smile at Aiden. “I’ll be fine. He can’t hurt me here. Or anywhere else now.”
His jaw tightens. “If he looks at you the wrong way, I’m coming in.”
“Deal.”
They lead me down another hallway, quieter than the first, the air cooler here. I’m acutely aware of every step I take, every echo of my shoes against the tile. Aiden walks with me until we reach the door to the interview room. He stops there, his hand brushing mine one last time. “I’ll be right here.”
I look up at him, taking in his steady expression, the calm confidence that’s been holding me upright since last night. “I know. But I really am okay.”
He kisses my forehead. “Well, I’m not. I don’t like this.”
I beam up at him. “I’ll make it quick.”
Inside, the room is precisely what I expect. A metal table. Two chairs. A camera mounted in the corner. The hum of electricity beneath the silence. They seat me on one side and adjust the recorder on the table, making sure everything is in frame.
When Marcus is brought in, the air changes.
He looks worse up close. Unshaven. Dark circles under his eyes. There’s a twitchiness to him, an energy that feels coiled too tight, ready to snap. He drops into the chair across from me with a sneer that twists his face into something ugly and familiar. I’ve known street junkies with less frisson in their aura.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then he smiles. “You think you’re so perfect,” he says, his voice low and venomous. “Sosuccessful.”
I remind myself of the rules. I don’t have to engage. I can look at the table. I can focus on my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
“I took that from you,” he continues, leaning forward as far as the cuffs will allow. “How does it feel?”
Something unexpected happens. The fear I’ve been carrying doesn’t spike. It drains like an infected wound that got lanced. The pressure, the pain, it all slides away like it was nothing.
I look at him, really look at him, and I don’t see power or control or inevitability. I see a man who made choices and is now desperate to make someone else responsible for them.
