The room was unbearably cold, but she felt nothing. It was the following day of the incident. Or the murder.
Numb. Too numb to register the buzzing fluorescent lights, the metal chair beneath her, the faint smell of old coffee and disinfectant.
My Peter. My sweet Peter.
Her heart felt frozen—placid, unnervingly still. Her face betrayed nothing, but her thoughts moved relentlessly, crashing into one another like waves with no shore.
"Ms. Dinah Elissera Carter?"
The woman across the table slid a paper cup of coffee toward her. Steam curled upward, the only thing in the room that seemed alive.
"That's your full legal name, correct?"
Eli didn't answer. Didn't blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on the smoke as it thinned into nothing.
"Or Eli," the woman continued evenly. "That's what most people call you."
She flipped open a thin folder, eyes never leaving Eli's face.
"I'm Detective Amber Smith, Homicide. This is a formal interview regarding the death of Peter Connelly. You are not under arrest at this moment, but you are a person of interest."
A beat.
"Before we proceed, I need you to confirm your name for the record."
Silence.
Amber sighed softly, controlled, and practiced.
"Eli," she tried again, gentler now. "Talk to me."
Then, almost casually—
"Or was it 'Peachy'?"
That did it.
Eli lifted her head and met Amber's gaze head-on.
"Honestly," she said, her voice calm, measured, "Peachy sounds—what the young ones call nowadays—quote, 'lame.'"
Amber blinked. Just once. It was subtle, but it was there.
She recovered quickly.
"Peter seemed to like it," Amber said, watching closely. "People usually use endearments when they're close."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Sometimes when things go wrong… intimacy turns ugly."
Eli slightly tilted her head.
"Is this where you imply motive?" she asked. "Because if it is, you're doing a terrible job."
Amber straightened.
"Careful," she warned. "This isn't a game."
"You're right," Eli replied coolly. "Which is why you should probably stop sounding so unprofessional. Is this really how you conduct interrogations?"
Amber studied her now—not offended, not angry, but assessing.
Eli wasn't crying. Wasn't shaking. Wasn't dissociating the way most people did when faced with loss this violent.
That alone made her dangerous.
"Your boyfriend was found dead in his residence," Amber said, voice firm. "Left eye socket ruptured. Severe blunt-force trauma. Limbs contorted at unnatural angles. Jaw fractured."
She paused deliberately.
"It wasn't quick. And it wasn't gentle."
Eli didn't react.
"And yet," Amber continued, quieter now, "you haven't shed a tear."
Eli finally spoke.
"I didn't do it."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Amber didn't respond right away. She watched her—really watched her.
Eli looked young. Mid-twenties at most. Too composed. Too beautiful in a way that didn't feel real. Dark hair that caught the light strangely, almost blue beneath the fluorescents. Pale skin, but not sickly—radiant, even. Her eyes were arresting. Not empty. Not dull.
Unreal, Amber thought.
She was taller than Amber by several inches, even seated. Built strong. Poised.
She doesn't look like a killer.
And yet—
"But the evidence says otherwise," Amber said.
The room fell silent.
"Your fingerprints were found throughout the crime scene," she continued, sliding photos across the table.
Another photo.
"You had blood on your clothes when officers arrived. It tested positive for Peter Connelly's DNA."
Eli stared at the pictures then she laughed. A short and humorless sound. This made Amber's brows knitted together.
That reaction—that—was wrong.
"She's snapped," Amber thought. Or she's hiding something.
"I love Peter," Eli said suddenly, laughter gone. "I did not kill him."
She leaned forward now, eyes locking onto Amber's.
"And I don't give a fuck about your societal systems or how neatly you want this wrapped up. I never killed him."
Amber held her gaze.
For a moment—a dangerous one—she almost believed her.
She did believe her. But belief didn't erase evidence. Objectively, clinically, everything pointed to Eli.
The blood. The fingerprints. The lack of forced entry. But what confuses her is the fact that she came back instead of running away.
Why come back if you were guilty? Amber wondered.
Unless—
Unless she'd already lost her mind. But the murder weapon. Where is it?
Amber closed the folder slowly.
"We're going to continue this after a short break," she said. "I suggest you think carefully about what you want to tell us next."
Eli said nothing. Her eyes were calm.
But inside, the storm was already tearing the world apart.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Detective Luis Moreno, lead investigator on the case, was already standing when Amber stepped out of the interrogation room. He had been with homicide for over a decade—the kind of detective who trusted evidence over instincts and rarely got things wrong.
"I think we should have her evaluated," Moreno said immediately, lowering his voice as the door shut behind her.
Amber placed the folder onto the stainless table beside them. "Psych?"
"Yes," Moreno replied. "That level of composure isn't normal. No shaking, no dissociation, no delayed grief response. She's either in shock—or suppressing something."
Amber nodded slowly. "She's… unsettling. Calm to the point of being unnatural."
Moreno began pacing, hands clasped behind his back. "But psychology alone doesn't build a case. Evidence does."
He flipped open his notebook. "Forensics confirmed her fingerprints on every major surface in the house. Door handles, countertops, debris. Blood spatter on her clothes—Peter's DNA."
Amber followed, "Neighbors place her at the residence around seven p.m."
"Correct," Moreno said. "Multiple witnesses heard raised voices. An argument. One neighbor said Peter was trying to calm her down."
"Then the crashes," Amber added quietly.
"Furniture breaking. Glass shattering," Moreno continued. "Followed by screams. Pleading from Peter. The call came in immediately."
"And when someone checked?" Amber asked.
"They saw her leaving the house," Moreno said. "Covered in blood. Furious but not panicked."
Amber folded her arms. "By the time patrol arrived, she was gone."
Moreno exhaled through his nose. "Well, it seems she didn't run far. Oddly, she came back."
"That's what bothers me," Amber murmured.
Moreno hesitated, then added, "There's something else."
Amber looked up.
"We haven't found the weapon," he said. "No blunt object with enough mass. No bloodied tool. Nothing that explains the trauma."
Amber frowned. "But the injuries—"
"Are extreme," Moreno cut in. "Left eye socket forcibly removed. Blunt force trauma consistent with repeated impact—but with a level of force that doesn't match her physical profile."
Amber stiffened. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying she doesn't look capable of that kind of damage," Moreno said carefully. "Not without a weapon. And even then…" He shook his head. "Pulling an eye socket out by hand? That's not just rage. That's… unnatural."
Amber swallowed. "So what are we missing?"
"That's what we need to figure out," Moreno replied. "Because right now, every piece of evidence says she did it. But the physics don't agree."
Silence settled between them.
"She says she didn't do it," Amber said at last. "And for a second, I believed her."
Moreno's jaw tightened. "Objectively, everything still points to her."
Before Amber could respond, a young uniformed officer rushed to them.
"Ma'am? Sir?" He tried to suppress his nervousness. "Sorry to interrupt."
Amber turned. "What is it, Officer?"
"There's another individual requesting to give a statement."
Moreno sighed. "We don't need another witness. The timeline is already solid."
The officer hesitated. "Sir… he's a witness for Ms. Carter."
Amber's eyes sharpened. "Meaning?"
"He claims he can verify that Ms. Carter was not present at the scene during the time of the murder."
Moreno and Amber exchanged a look.
After a beat, Moreno nodded. "Bring him in."
Amber straightened. "Let's hear what he has to say."
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Outside the precinct, the rain had started.
It came down soft at first, misting the pavement, blurring the city lights into pale smears of neon and red. Officers moved in and out of the building, their voices low, clipped, tired.
Perched on the iron railing across the street sat a raven.
Large. Still.
Its feathers were darker than the night itself, swallowing the light instead of reflecting it. One claw gripped the metal, the other tucked neatly beneath its body. It didn't shift. Didn't ruffle.
It watched.
Through the glass doors, through the layers of fluorescent light and steel, it watched the woman inside the interrogation room.
Eli.
The raven tilted its head slightly.
It had followed her from Nue Alley.
From the blue neon sign. From the moment the world turned against her.
A patrol car passed, its lights flashing. Red. Blue. Red. Blue.
The raven didn't flinch.
A uniformed officer stopped nearby to light a cigarette, then paused.
"Damn," he muttered. "That bird's been there a while."
The raven's eye gleamed. As if acknowledging the statement. The officer shrugged and turned away.
Inside, Eli stared at the table, hands folded, face calm in a way that frightened even herself.
Outside, the raven shifted its weight. A low sound rumbled in its throat—not quite a croak. Not quite a cry. More like a promise.
It spread its wings once, slowly, testing the air.
Not yet.
It would wait.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The smell of faint alcohol and cigarettes hit the room the moment the man stepped inside.
He looked slightly cleaner than the night before—face washed, clothes changed—but the wear of years still clung to him. Shoulders slumped, eyes sunken, but they were alert. Sober enough to remember.
Detective Moreno leaned forward. "State your name for the record."
"Charlie Hayes," the man said, his voice rough but steady. "I'm… I'm homeless. I'm here as a witness."
Amber raised an eyebrow. "A witness for whom?"
Charlie shook his head. "I don't know her name. Never asked. But I remember the girl who passed me that night. She gave me money." He paused, voice softening. "Said something about life already writing too much for people. Didn't wanna interfere—just… nudge, I guess."
Moreno exchanged a look with Amber. "Go on."
Charlie took a deep breath. "I saw her again later. Around seven-twenty-five, maybe. She walked past me on the street. I was drunk, sure, but I remember her clearly. There were kids rushing past—some taxi, some Christmas thing. They were screaming it was seven-twenty-five already and their party was at seven-thirty. That's when she gave me the money. That little thing she did… I'll never forget it. She was kind, even in passing."
Amber scribbled notes quickly.
"And the victim?" Amber asked softly.
Charlie shook his head. "Don't know his name either. But… later, I saw her in an alley with him. He looked the same in the picture. Blond and charming. They were laughing, kissing. Happy. Didn't look like anyone was hurt. Not then, at least."
Moreno frowned. "You're certain it was the same girl?"
"Yeah," Charlie said. "Same walk, same… presence. Can't mistake her."
Amber asked quietly, "What happened next?"
"I turned away," he said. "Didn't wanna be part of it. Later… much later… I saw her again. Running. Wild. Crying. Alone. No blood, no dirt. Nothing. Just panicked."
Moreno's brow tightened. "And the time?"
"Could've been just past eight," Charlie said. "By the time I heard the guy was dead, she couldn't have made it there. No way."
Amber looked up sharply. "Explain that."
"This morning, I walked by his place. Even if she ran, even if she had a car… there's no way. Can't be done. And that guy was with her."
Silence fell.
Moreno tapped the pen on the table. "You're saying our timeline is impossible?"
"I'm saying," Charlie said, voice firm, "she didn't have time to kill him. Didn't happen."
Amber closed her folder slowly.
Then—a soft tap echoed from the corner of the room.
Amber froze.
Perched on the high cabinet was a raven.
Its black-blue feathers glinted under the fluorescent lights. Its eyes sharp. Knowing.
Moreno jumped. "What the hell—"
The raven tilted its head.
And spoke.
"She's telling the truth."
Amber's breath caught.
Moreno's hand went to his belt. "Did… did that bird just—"
"She loves him," the raven said calmly. "And she didn't kill him."
The room felt suddenly smaller. Heavier.
Charlie didn't look surprised. He rubbed his hands together.
Amber whispered, "That's… not possible."
The raven's gaze shifted—through the glass, toward Eli in the interrogation room.
"Neither," it said softly, "is what killed Peter."