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“Tyler Bennett.”

“And you’re saying you were responsible for Isla Hayes’ death?”

“Yes.”

He pressed a button on the desk, and a female officer appeared through the secure door behind him less than a minute later. The first officer spoke quietly to her before turning back to me. “Do you have anything on you that could harm you or anyone else?”

“No.”

“I’m going to search you.”

I raised Tyler’s arms and allowed him to do it. He located the ring and held it up between a gloved finger and thumb. ‘What’s this?”

“Isla’s wedding ring. I took it from her after she hit her head.”

The two officers exchanged a glance.

The female officer stepped forward. “Mr. Bennett, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Isla Hayes.”

She delivered the caution while securing Tyler’s wrists behind his back. The restraints triggered another flicker of resistance, but he had little left to give. His knees trembled beneath us, and his consciousness felt dull around the edges.

“I want to tell you what happened,” I said.

“You’ll be given the opportunity to do that in a formal interview,” the female officer said. She took hold of our arm and led us through the secure door.

The process that followed was surprisingly lengthy. Humans had created an impressive number of obstacles between confessing to a crime and being allowed to explain how you’d committed it. They took Tyler before a custody sergeant, searched him more thoroughly, and asked him a series of questions about his health and medication, to which I invented the answers.

They sealed the ring inside an evidence bag and took it away.

Tyler watched it go through our eyes.

That proves nothing. It was in a box. Anyone could have put it there.

I remained silent.

They offered him a solicitor.

I declined.

Take the solicitor.

No.

You don’t know how any of this works.

I’ve seen it on the TV.

A despairing sound echoed through his mind.

We spent some time alone in a holding cell before two officers arrived to escort us to an interview room. It was small and windowless, with a table fixed to the floor and a camera mounted high in one corner. Two detectives sat opposite me, one of them placing a file on the table while the other set up the recording equipment. They identified themselves before confirming that I’d been offered free legal advice but had chosen to proceed without it.

The older detective leaned forward. “You told the arresting officers you were involved in the death of Isla Hayes.”

“Yes.”

“Tell us what happened.”

I relayed the speech that Rowan had made me practice. “I met her at her house. She wanted me to end my relationship with her son, Rowan, because she believed I was using him for money. We argued, and when she tried to walk away, I grabbed her. She tripped over the rug and struck her head on the hearth.”