Her shoulders sag slightly. “I know. I just… it scared me, Vi. Thinking you might’ve—” She stops herself, jaw tightening. “I should’ve known better.”
I nod slowly. “Me too. I should’ve trusted you instead of jumping to conclusions.”
Cami exhales sharply, her grip on the leather seat easing. “I should’ve trusted you.”
I glance at her. “Yeah.”
She gives me a small, wry smile before looking back out the window. “We good?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”
The tension in the car eases. It’s not perfect—there’s still a lot left unsaid. But for now, it’s enough.
I stare out the window as the city skyline looms closer, my chest tight.
Whatever happens next, I have a feeling nothing will be the same after today.
The NYPD precinct smells like coffee, disinfectant, and tension. They lead us into a small waiting room with flickering fluorescent lights and chairs that are bolted to the floor.
I can’t stop shaking. The coffee in my hands sloshes dangerously close to the rim, but I don’t trust myself to set it down.
Cami sits beside me, knee bouncing. She’s quieter than usual. That scares me more than her anger would.
“This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “Why are we even here?”
“Because Alessandra Moore is dead,” I whisper. “And someone wants it to point back at us.”
Before she can respond, a deputy opens the door. “Ms. Cole.”
My stomach drops.
I set the coffee down carefully and stand. Cami gives me a tight nod, bravado slipping for just a second.
They walk me down the hall and into an interview room. A two-way mirror separates it from the one beside it, and they seat me directly across from it.
I can see Cami through the glass in a different interrogation room, fidgeting with her sleeve.
A man in khakis, and a black button-down enters and sits across from me, clipboard in hand. Calm. Measured.
“How are you doing today, Ms. Cole?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good. Did they tell you why we asked you to come in?”
I shake my head.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Alessandra Moore.”
Even knowing it’s coming doesn’t soften the blow.
“How many times have you been to one of her parties?”
“None,” I say honestly. “I’ve never met her in person.”
“How do you know Ms. Devereaux?”
“She’s my best friend. Since college.”
