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Across the desk, the officer tells Maggie to take her time.

I want to tell him that’s nice in theory, but time is currently chewing through my sister’s nervous system with very expensive teeth.

Instead, I keep my mouth shut.

Personal growth?

Possibly.

Maggie sits beside me with her hands twisted together in her lap. She keeps trying to hide the shaking by tucking her fingers under the sleeves of her sweater, but I’ve known her since she was born. I know every version of her. The fake smile. The real smile. The smile she gives when she’s two seconds away from threatening someone with a kitchen utensil.

Today, she’s barely holding herself together.

The station smells like old coffee, printer paper, disinfectant, and the kind of stress that should come with its own warning label. Every sound feels too loud. The scrape of a chair, the click of a pen, the buzz from the lights above us. Maggie flinches at none of it, which somehow bothers me more.

She’s locked herself down.

That’s worse than tears.

The folder on the desk sits between Maggie and the officer, thick enough to make my stomach turn. When she told me she’d been keeping records I imagined a handful of screenshots, maybe a few emails she’d saved because some instinct told her to.

I didn’t picture this.

The officer opens the folder, and the room seems to shrink around us.

Photographs sit on top. Beneath them are printed messages, medical reports, email chains, screenshots, notes in Maggie’s handwriting, and dates lined up with careful precision. Page after page of proof. Page after page of my sister trying to build an exit while pretending she wasn’t trapped.

My throat tightens.

Seeing the abuse organized in a folder is different. It makes the years of quiet suffering feel viscerally physical. It makes every missed sign rise up inside me with ugly little teeth.

How did I miss so much?

The thought digs in, but I shove it down before it can take over. Maggie doesn’t need me drowning in guilt right now. She needs me sitting beside her, calm enough to be useful, and close enough that she remembers she isn’t alone.

The officer turns another page.

Maggie stares at the table as if looking directly at the folder might split her open.

I reach over and slide my hand into hers.

She grabs on immediately.

Her grip hurts.

I let it.

The officer takes his time with the pages. His expression changes the deeper he gets, the polite professionalism fading into concern. He doesn’t rush or sigh. He doesn’t give Maggie that awful look people give women when they’ve already decided the story will be inconvenient to believe.

I’m prepared for that look.

I’ve built a whole courtroom argument in my head against that look.

I’m also prepared to be removed from the building, although Ashby made me promise twice in the parking lot that I wouldn’t “turn a police interview into a hostage negotiation.” His faith in me remains touching yet deeply insulting.

The officer finally closes the folder with care and looks at Maggie. “Maggie.”

Her hand tightens around mine.