The police arrived not with sirens, but with a quiet, grim authority that was somehow worse. They moved through the office like a cold front, their presence turning the nervous chatter into a tense, watchful silence.
My heart, which had been hammering since the scream, began to beat in a new, erratic rhythm against my ribs—a frantic bird sensing a cage.
Two detectives found me. I didn't see them approach; I just looked up and they were there.
One was older, with a face carved from worn stone and eyes that seemed to absorb light. The other was younger, his gaze sharp and restless, flicking over my stained dress, my trembling hands, as if cataloging evidence.
"Camilla Gray?" the older one said. It wasn't really a question. "We need to speak with you. This way."
They led me to a small, windowless conference room. The door clicked shut behind us, and the sound was terrifyingly final. The younger detective, Walsh, pulled out a chair for me.
I sat, my legs unsteady. The vinyl was cold, shockingly so, and the chill seeped through my thin dress.
The older one, Irons, settled across from me, his movements slow and deliberate. He placed a small recorder on the table between us. The little red light blinked on.
Click.
"Let's start simple, Ms. Gray," Irons began, his voice a low, steady rumble. "Full name and position here."
My mouth was parchment-dry. "Camilla Gray. I'm… I was a cleaner." The past tense slipped out, and a fresh wave of dread washed over me. Was.
Walsh's pen scratched across his notepad. The sound was unnaturally loud.
"I am Irons and my friend here is Walsh"
"What time did you arrive at work today?" Irons added.
"Seven-thirty." My voice sounded too high, too thin.
"Did you see Mr. Charles this morning?"
"No. Not until… later."
"Later being when?" Walsh interjected, his eyes piercing.
I flinched at his tone. "Around nine-fifteen. He called me to his office." The memory of the summons—Sophia's urgent whisper, the walk of shame—tightened my chest.
"Why?" Irons asked.
"He was… displeased with me. There was an incident in a client meeting earlier." My hand fluttered toward my cheek, the ghost of Amelia Thorne's slap still burning. Both detectives watched the movement. I forced my hand down, clenching it in my lap.
"The incident involving Amelia Thorne," Irons stated. "You spilled wine on her."
It wasn't a question. They already knew. Of course they knew. Everyone knew.
My face flamed with a humiliation that was now morphing into something darker: the fear of being seen as unstable, as a person capable of a grudge.
"Yes," I whispered.
"And how did Mr. Charles react to this?"
"He was angry. He said he needed to see me." I was carefully constructing a wall, brick by brick, leaving out the horrifying architecture behind it.
"So, at approximately nine-fifteen, you entered his office," Walsh recapped, his voice clinical. "What was the nature of your discussion?"
The click of the belt buckle echoed in my memory. The metallic rasp of the zipper seemed to vibrate in the quiet room. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck.
They can't know. I can't say it.
Why was it so hard to say the truth now, I'll be a major suspect if I opened up.
"He informed me my employment was being terminated. Effective immediately. For cause." The words came out in a robotic monotone.
"Terminated," Irons repeated, letting the word hang. "So, you were fired. Shortly before he was killed."
The connection was drawn with brutal clarity. A motive, laid bare. My pulse roared in my ears.
They think I did it. Oh, God, they think I killed him.
"I didn't—" I started, but my voice cracked.
"We're just establishing facts, Ms. Gray," Walsh said, but there was no warmth in it. "What happened after he fired you?"
A fine tremor started in my knee, making my foot tap a silent, frantic rhythm against the chair leg.
"I… I begged." The admission was ash in my mouth. "I told him I needed the job. That I had debts."
"And what did he say?"
My throat closed. "Anything, Camilla?" His soft, predatory voice slithered through my mind. "He… he asked if I meant it. If I would do… anything to keep it."
The detectives exchanged a look. A silent conversation passed between them. The red light on the recorder stared at me like a unblinking, judgmental eye.
"And you said?" Irons prompted, his gentle tone now feeling like a trap.
"I said yes." The whisper was barely audible.
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Walsh leaned forward slightly. "What happened then, Ms. Gray? After you said 'yes'?"
Panic, pure and icy, shot through my veins. My mind scrambled. If I told them, it would sound like a lie. A desperate, salacious lie to cover my tracks. Or it would sound like a reason—a final, degrading provocation that could push someone over the edge.
"He… he said the decision was final," I lied, the words tasting foul. "He told me to leave."
"You just left? After begging for your job?" Walsh's skepticism was a physical pressure.
"I was upset. I left."
"Did you see anyone else? Hear anything unusual when you left?"
"The hallway was empty." Just me, and my terror, and the sound of his zipper.
"And then you went directly to the restroom?"
"Yes."
"How long were you in there?"
"I don't know. A few minutes." Long enough for someone to walk in and put a bullet in him. The unspoken thought hung in the air, shouted by my own guilty posture, my trembling hands.
"Long enough," Walsh murmured, not looking up from his notes.
Irons steepled his fingers. "Ms. Gray, is there anyone who can verify your whereabouts between leaving that office and hearing the scream?"
The walls of the small room seemed to lean in. No. No one. I was utterly, terrifyingly alone in that timeline. A perfect suspect.
"No," I said, the word a death knell.
"These debts you mentioned," Irons continued, shifting gears with a calm that was more frightening than anger. "Serious enough to beg for a cleaning job. Would you say you were desperate?"
The question was a knife. "I… I needed to work."
"Anyone else know about your desperation? Anyone who might have decided to take matters into their own hands on your behalf? A partner? A friend?"
Lucian Thorne.
The name was a thunderclap in my skull, followed by a chilling, certain dread.
If he was behind this, mentioning his name would be like throwing myself into the lion's den. He owned the police. He owned everything. Saying his name would make me disappear.
"No," I forced out, my voice shaking. "There's no one."
The questions kept coming, circling, digging. They asked about the slap again, about my history, about my life. Each answer felt like a thread they were pulling, unraveling me in this cold, bright room. I was a tapestry of misfortune and poor decisions, and to them, it was starting to look like a blueprint for violence.
Finally, Irons switched off the recorder. The little red light died. The silence was sudden and absolute.
"We'll need a formal statement at the station," he said, standing. "Don't leave the city, Ms. Gray."
It was a command, and a threat. As I stood, my legs weak, Walsh gave me one last, assessing look.
"Think hard, Ms. Gray. About your 'conversation' with Mr. Charles. The truth has a way of coming out."
I could feel a single bead of sweat tracing a path from my temple to my jaw, but I dared not wipe it away.
I walked out of the room, their eyes boring into my back. The office was a blur of anxious faces and police tape. But all I could feel was the cold, clamping fear around my heart.
The police were asking questions, building a case from the shattered pieces of my day.
And the only answer that mattered—the truth that spelled a different, more profound kind of danger—was locked behind my lips, screaming silently into the void.
I think I know who killed him.
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To be continued...