The Next Morning

Interrogation Room B. 9:03 AM.

The room smelled like disinfectant and stale coffee.

Selene sat alone at the metal table, wrists cuffed, hair pulled back in a way that tried—and failed—to look composed. The bravado she’d worn online hadn’t survived the night in a holding cell.

The door opened.

Two officers walked in. One male, one female. No rush. No emotion. A thick file landed on the table with a dull thud.

Selene flinched.

“Good morning, Miss Maria Donald,” the female officer said, sitting. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Selene lifted her chin. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The male officer didn’t bother sitting. He...