A woman pokes her head into the interrogation room with a sympathetic expression just as I stand, ready to leave. "I'm sorry, Ms. d'Armand, but we need your clothes for evidence."
Startled, I look down at my blood-smeared clothes. "But you've already swabbed every inch of me. What more could you possibly need?"
"It's standard procedure in cases like this."
Of course. It makes sense. Questioning it seems silly. I'm not just a witness—I'm a suspect.
Following the officer down the hall to another room, she hands me a bundle of fabric. "Here are some spare clothes. They might not fit perfectly, but they should be comfortable enough."
I take the offered garments, my fingers trembling slightly. "Thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
She gestures to a small changing area. "You can change in there. Just leave your clothes in the bag provided when you're done."
