The interrogation room is too familiar.
Officer Daniels sits in a chair across from me, as if we're friends. The table is scooted off to the side this time, I guess to give a more intimate atmosphere.
But it's all fake.
My skin itches and burns, leaving me shifting restlessly in my seat, even as I chide myself to stop. All that movement's going to make me look guilty.
But it's frustrating. Why should someone innocent ever have to worry about looking guilty?
Maybe it's being a little too much poor me, but seriously—it's ridiculous. I'm a victim, too. I might be alive, but I seriously need to spend a solid month on a therapist's couch with a gallon of ice cream daily and some soft squishy stuffed animals to cuddle with.
Biting back the hysterical giggle bubbling up at that thought, I focus instead on Officer Daniels' words.
"And what is the nature of your relationship with Officer Everett, Ms. d'Armand?"
