The interrogation room was cold – deliberately so, Jackson thought. He’d been sitting there for hours, his wrists raw from the handcuffs, while Detective Morrison circled him like a shark that had scented blood in the water. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant reminder of the sterile, unforgiving environment he found himself in.

“Let’s go through this again,” Morrison said, dropping a manila folder onto the metal table. Crime scene photos spilled out – Henry’s body, the ransacked apartment, Jackson’s own shocked face as they led him away. “You expect us to believe you just happened to show up minutes after he was killed?”

Jackson stared at the photos,...