"Ms. d’Armand?"
I blink, the harsh fluorescent light burning my eyes. It’s a struggle to focus on the two n sitting across the table. One wears the crisp blue uniform of a police officer, the other the sleek black attire of the Supernatural Enforcent Division. Their faces swim in and out of focus, blurring into indistinct shapes.
"Y-yes?" My voice cracks, barely above a whisper. My throat feels raw, as if I’ve been screaming for hours. Have I? I can’t rember. I feel like screaming. At the world. At the insanity of everything.
Scott’s dead.
Dead-dead.
Like, really dead.
The cold tal of the chair seeps through my clothes, chilling to the bone. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself. The fabric of my shirt crinkles, stiff with dried blood. Scott’s blood. My stomach lurches at the thought.
They processed for evidence, even including a rape kit, at the hospital. I haven’t had a chance to change; the police asked to co to the station imdiately.
I’ve answered a thousand questions, but my answers are all the sa.
I don’t know.
I don’t know what happened.
I don’t rember anything.
I can see the suspicion in their eyes, even as they treat kindly. Pretend I’m not a suspect. Pretend to care about my feelings.
Not a single one of them believes .
"We need to ask you a few more questions about what happened this morning."
This morning? Is it still morning? How long have I been here? The fluorescent lights offer no clue to the passage of ti, their constant hum a maddening backdrop to my scattered thoughts.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Can you walk us through the events leading up to Mr. Bower’s death?"
Mr. Bower. Scott. Dead. The words echo in my mind, refusing to connect into a coherent thought. I open my mouth, but no sound cos out.
"Take your ti, Ms. d’Armand," the officer says, his tone gentler now. "We understand you’ve been through a traumatic experience."
Traumatic. That’s one word for it. I close my eyes, trying to piece together the fragnted mories of the night.
But still, nothing’s there.
I sigh, giving the sa answer I’ve given several tis already today, frustrated with the gaping hole in my mory. "I sent Scott a text yesterday afternoon, telling him to co pick up his things after work. He replied that he would."
The officer nods, scribbling sothing in his notepad. "And why weren’t you at work yesterday, Ms. d’Armand?"
A bitter taste fills my mouth as I recall yesterday’s events. "There was... an incident with Scott at the office. He beca physically aggressive, so I filed a complaint with HR."
"I see. Can you provide the na of the HR representative you spoke with?"
I wrack my brain, pushing past the fog of shock and exhaustion. "Sarah... Sarah Jennings, I think."
The officer makes another note. His partner leans forward, his voice gentle. "Can you tell us about last evening? What happened after you got ho?"
I close my eyes, trying to conjure up mories that simply aren’t there. All I see is Scott’s face, pale and lifeless, eyes staring blankly at nothing. I shudder, rubbing at my eyes beneath my glasses, as if that can erase the image. "I’m sorry, I can’t rember anything."
The kinder officer nods, his expression softening. "That’s alright. Let’s focus on this morning. Can you walk us through how you discovered Mr. Bower’s body?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry and scratchy. "I woke up with a terrible headache. Everything was blurry—I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I ran to the bathroom, feeling sick. It wasn’t until after I’d thrown up that I noticed... the blood."
"You didn’t notice Mr. Bower in your bed when you woke up?"
I shake my head. "No, I can’t see well without my glasses. Everything’s just a blur of shapes and colors."
The first officer raises an eyebrow. "How poor is your vision exactly, Ms. d’Armand?"
"I can see what’s right in front of , but anything beyond about five feet is just a blur. I can’t make out faces or details."
They exchange a glance I can’t quite interpret. The kinder officer leans in again. "So, what happened after you noticed the blood?"
I close my eyes, trying to piece together the fractured mories. "I looked in the mirror and saw... blood on my face, my arms. I panicked. That’s when I went back to the bedroom. I was in a funk, I think. Thought I had to go to the hospital, but I was worried about blood on my bed. I tried to take the blanket off and that’s when I saw him."
The words catch in my throat. I can’t bring myself to describe the scene again—Scott’s body, cold and still, the sheets stained crimson. The officers wait patiently as I struggle to regain my composure.
"That’s when you called your friend, Ms. de Lucien, correct?" the first officer prompts.
I nod, grateful for the lifeline. "Yes. Penelope. She told to call the police right away."
"And you did?"
"Of course," I say, perhaps a bit too defensively. "I called 911 imdiately after hanging up with her." Didn’t I? I frown, thinking back. "No, wait. She called. After she got there. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do."
The officers share another look.
Yeah. Penelope was right. I should have called them sooner. But I was panicking.
But no matter when I called them, they’d still suspect like this anyway.
The kinder one leans forward again. "Ms. d’Armand, we understand this is difficult. But we need to ask—is there anything else you rember? Anything at all that might help us understand what happened?"
I rack my brain, desperate for any scrap of mory that might make sense of this nightmare. But there’s nothing—just a black void where last night should be.
"I’m sorry," I whisper, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "I wish I could rember. I wish I knew what happened. But I don’t. I just... I don’t know."
The first officer taps his pen against his notebook. "You said you were afraid, Ms. d’Armand. Why?"
The question has confused. "What do you an?"
"What were you afraid of specifically, Ms. d’Armand?"
"I don’t know. I was just afraid. Scott was in my bed. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t rember anything. I was worried..." I hesitate. Is it okay to ntion that I was scared they’d think I did it?
Does that make more or less suspect in their eyes?
God. This is such a ss.
"Worried?" he prompts. "What did you do when you got off the phone with Ms. de Lucien?"
"I—" Struggling with my head, I try to think back. "I don’t rember. She told not to touch anything, so I think I just stood there."
"You just stood there." He scribbles away on his pad. "Didn’t look around or anything?"
"I think I walked through..." Yes. I did, didn’t I? "I walked through. I wanted to know what happened and was hoping I could find out sothing by looking around."
"Weren’t you afraid of running into the culprit?" he asks pointedly, in a way that has my heart stuttering in fear.
He thinks I did it.
He’s already positive it was .
"No, I—"
Why didn’t I? Why wasn’t I afraid there was a murderer skulking around the corner?
"I don’t know. I didn’t even think about it," I say, my voice nearly fading away as I admit it.
They share another glance, full of anings. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure they think they’ve already got their murderer. Even I think my answers are suspicious. Who loses all their mory like this? My defense is flimsy at best.
A little part of feels guilty for worrying about myself in this situation, but—well, everyone else has the luxury of not being a suspect. Right now, I’m feeling the pressure of being in the hot seat.
Will any of them believe ? Will they investigate properly?
He sighs, closing his notebook. "Alright, Ms. d’Armand. I think that’s all for now. We’ll be in touch if we have any further questions."
As they stand to leave, a thought strikes . "Wait," I call out, my voice trembling. "Am I... am I under arrest?"
The kinder one turns back, his expression unreadable. "Not at this ti, Ms. d’Armand. But I would advise you not to leave town. We’ll likely need to speak with you again."
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