Line by line, she builds this truth-based alibi to give stability. Not a scrap of anxiety. No spiritual dodge or metaphysical smoke. She’s engaged, attentive, and just helpful enough to be believable.
“Family time, huh?” The tone shifts as he goes for a new angle. “Where were you? The number we have for you isn’t working.”
That’s the test. Most people would trip. Unless they were clean.
Jordan just laughs. “I lost my phone in a lake trying to do yoga on the dock, if you can believe it. Had to get a new number. Still updating everything.”
Her laugh—a real, natural one rather than an overexplainer’s—even promptsmyshoulders to relax.
With this detective, she doesn’t act like the scatterbrained mystic or the cornered prey. She controls every inch of herself, using her words like a shield.
I’m impressed. And annoyed. Because now I’m rethinking every conversation we’ve ever had.
I know she at least half believes all the New Age garbage—her time on stage earlier proved that—but clearly that’s not all she’s hiding under that pretty face.
She’s sneaky. Calculating.
Dangerous.
Mine.
Not the fucking time, Kirill.
“Any chance you were home the night of the fourteenth?” The detective doesn’t let up.
She tilts her head, feigning thought. “No, definitely gone by then. Like I said. Left on the thirteenth.”
No room for doubt.
“Sorry for the interruption.” The detective sounds resigned. He knows she’s redirected him and doesn’t know how to go back. “If you remember anything, here’s my card.”
Paper exchanges hands and bright warmth lights up Jordan’s voice as she thanks him.
The detective’s shadow starts to turn, then stops. His shoes crunch the soft carpet in the hall. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Thought I heard you talking to someone.”
My hand finds the metal at my side.
“I’m a podcaster.” Jordan’s laugh is disarming sunshine. “I talk to myself constantly. It’s a side effect of the job. We all end up sounding insane.”
A half-second pause ensues. “Sounded like an argument.”
My muscles tighten as I prepare for the fight.
Jordan doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s like a telenovela in here.” She releases a richer, more authentic laugh and taps the side of her head with a finger. “Except with a microphone. Have you ever watched a soap opera, Detective?”
“Once or twice.” His words come slower, more relaxed.
Jordan shrugs, almost playfully. “So you get it. My life’s basically like that. Drama for the microphone to keep my audiences entertained.”
The detective actually chuckles. I hear his shoes shuffling back, his weight receding. “Thanks for your time, Miss Thorne. Enjoy the conference.”
“Thank you, Detective. Have a good one.” With a smile, she wiggles her fingers at him.
Once the door closes, the resulting silence rings louder than any shout.
Jordan stands frozen, her hand still on the knob, her back to me like she’s bracing for an aftershock.
She’s perfectly poised in that black dress, revealing no hint of the chaos that just passed.
