The interrogation room was colder than Emily remembered.

Not because of the air-conditioning—but because of the silence.

The kind that didn’t rush you. The kind that waited.

Emily sat upright, hands folded on the metal table, her spine stiff the way it always got when she felt cornered. Across from her, the detective—mid-forties, tired eyes, voice calm to the point of cruelty—closed a thin folder with a soft tap.

“We’ve reviewed the autopsy again,” he said evenly. “And the toxicology reports.”

Emily didn’t blink.

“I already told you everything I know.”

The detective nodded, as if he’d expected that. He slid a photo across the table—medical charts, dates circled in...