"I'm Morgan," she said, offering no last name. "I'll be conducting your interview today."
"Interview for what, exactly?"
Morgan's mouth curved—amusement, maybe, or recognition—but it was gone before Serafina could read it. "We'll get there. First, I need to verify a few things."
She didn't have a clipboard, a tablet, or any visible notes. She simply watched Serafina with eyes that gave nothing away.
"You served in the Marines. Military Police. Deployed to Iraq during the surge."
It wasn't a question, but Serafina nodded anyway.
"You've been with LAPD for fourteen years. Made detective in 2016, homicide for the last eight." Morgan paused, tilting her head slightly. "Commendations for marksmanship, crisis negotiation, and conflict resolution under pressure."
Serafina's jaw tightened. "You've done your homework."
"We do thorough work."
The words hung in the air, neither boastful nor apologetic—a simple statement of fact.
Morgan's gaze didn't waver. "Your sister is currently in the ICU at UC San Diego Health. Emergency thyroidectomy performed last night by Dr. Anika Rao. The surgery went well—nerves preserved, parathyroids intact. The prognosis is good." She paused. "The bill, however, is considerable."
The words landed like a blow to the sternum.
Serafina felt her hands want to curl into fists. She kept them flat on her thighs, kept her expression neutral, kept her breathing steady—the way she'd learned to do in interrogation rooms, at crime scenes, in every situation where showing what you felt was a weakness someone else could exploit.
"How do you know that?"
"We know a great deal, Detective. It's our job to know." Morgan's tone carried no apology or embarrassment. "Your apartment in Los Angeles was destroyed in an electrical fire two days ago. Your stepfather is struggling with heart failure and medication costs he can't afford. Your sister's scholarship has been revoked due to her medical withdrawal."
Serafina stared at her. The anger was there—hot and immediate, pressing against her ribs—but beneath it was something colder: calculation. This woman knew everything, and not the kind of surface details you could pull from a background check. She knew the specifics, the timing, the exact shape of the disaster that had driven Serafina to answer a suspicious ad and walk into a strange building with a gun on her hip.
Either Morgan was connected to something with serious resources, or she was connected to something very dangerous. Possibly both.
"You're here because you're desperate," Morgan said, the words matter-of-fact, almost gentle. "That's not an insult. It's simply the truth. We look for people in your situation."
"People you can exploit."
Morgan tilted her head, considering the accusation without flinching from it. "People who are motivated. Who have nothing left to lose but something worth fighting for." She paused. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"I think so, but you'll have to decide that for yourself."
She shifted slightly in her chair, recrossing her legs, and something in her demeanor changed—a subtle shift from assessment to something more purposeful.
"I need to ask you some questions that may feel intrusive," she said. "I assure you they're relevant."
Serafina's eyes narrowed. "Go ahead."
"Are you currently in a romantic relationship?"
The question caught her off guard. Of all the things she'd expected—criminal history, financial details, medical records—this wasn't on the list. She almost laughed.
"No."
"When was your last serious relationship?"
"I don't see how that's relevant to?—"
