The interview room smelled like every bad thing—stale coffee, sour bleach, old smoke clinging to everything like grief. The flickering ceiling light hummed like it was mocking them, casting these sharp, twitchy shadows across the scratched linoleum. Camille sat stiff—like if she moved, she’d fall apart right there. Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild and uneven, like it was trying to outrun the video stuck in her brain—David’s goddamn smirk on their porch. That smile. That look.

Ellie was safe—safe, Lila said—next door at the neighbor’s house. But Camille’s thoughts wouldn’t stay still. They clawed at each other, tore through her like wire.

He’s caught? Really? Or is this...