What if he isn't bluffing? What if Deimos, for all his god-like arrogance, missed a hidden microphone? If Miller plays a recording of Deimos’s voice, I’m not just a suspect anymore, I’m an accomplice to the most wanted man in the city.
DEIMOS:“Madeline. Listen to me. I don’t make mistakes. He’s looking for a reaction. Don't give him the satisfaction of a single blink. Call his bluff.”
His voice is so calm it’s terrifying. It’s the voice of a man who has never failed, and that’s exactly what scares me. But I have no choice. I’m already in the lion's den. I can’t play it safe anymore.
I lean forward, my chest nearly touching the edge of the cold table, and I let a slow, mocking smile spread across my face.
“Play it.”
Miller’s eyes narrow. He wasn't expecting that. He expected a flinch, a stammer, a confession.
“If you have a recording of a man in my office, Detective, play it right now. Because I’d love to hear what my 'shadow' has to say. Or are we going to wait for you to find a voice actor to match your anonymous tip? Because so far, your evidence consists of a dry flower and a ghost story.”
Silence stretches between us. I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of officers in the hallway, and the heavy, rhythmic thud of my own heart. Miller doesn't move. He doesn't reach for a recorder. He just stares at me, and I realize Deimos was right.
He has nothing.
DEIMOS:“Checkmate, little storm. Now, finish him. Tell him you’re leaving.”
“I think we’re done here, Detective. Unless you’re planning on charging me with 'suspicious floral arrangements,' I have a morgue full of actual cases to attend to. My lawyer will be expecting your call if you find anything that isn't a fabrication.”
I stand up, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. Miller remains seated, his hands clenched into fists on the table.
“You’re just a puppet. And when he’s done with you, he’ll leave you exactly where we found Jake. In the dirt.”
I don't answer. I turn my back on him, a move that feels like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire, and walk toward the door. My legs feel like lead, but I keep my head high.
DEIMOS:“Walk straight. Don't look back. The driver is at the side entrance. You did well, Mali. Better than I expected.”
As the glass doors of the station shut behind me and the cool air hits my face, the adrenaline finally begins to ebb, leaving me shaking.
I made it out. But as I climb into the back of the black sedan, I realize Miller was right about one thing. I am a puppet. And the man holding the strings is currently whispering praise into my ear like it’s a love song.
The afternoon sun is still high, casting long, harsh shadows across the precinct’s parking lot. It feels wrong. After everything that just happened in that cold, windowless room, the world outside is moving along as if nothing has changed. People are walking their dogs; traffic is humming.
The driver, silent and stone-faced, pulls away from the curb immediately. My hand is trembling as I reach up to my ear. I want that device out. I want to be alone with my thoughts, away from the man who just forced me to become a liar.
But before my fingers can reach it, his voice returns. It’s no longer the sharp, instructional tone he used during the interrogation. It’s dropped an octave, becoming something more intimate, something that makes my skin prickle.
DEIMOS:“You were exquisite there, Mali. The way you looked him in the eye and lied for me... it was almost better than a confession. But don’t think for a second that removing that earpiece makes you alone. I don’t need a wire to hear your heart racing for me. Go back to your dead. I’ll be watching every cut you make this afternoon.”
The line goes dead with a soft, final click.
I rip the earpiece out, my heart hammering against my ribs exactly as he described. I stare at the small piece of plastic in my palm, feeling exposed even behind the tinted windows. He isn’t just watching through cameras; he’s watching me.
The car pulls up to the familiar gates of the mortuary. The afternoon light hits the brick building, making it look almost peaceful, though I know better.
The driver finally speaks, his voice raspy and devoid of emotion.
“We’re here, Doctor. Have a productive shift.”
I don’t thank him. I just step out and walk toward the entrance. My shift is just beginning, and for the first time in my career, the silence of the morgue feels less like a sanctuary and more like a trap.
I push open the heavy door to my office, expecting the cold comfort of silence and the scent of sterile paper. Instead, I’m met with the sharp, floral sting of the lilies on my desk and a presence that makes the air in the room vibrate with tension.
Lucy is sitting in my swivel chair, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She isn't crying, but her face is flushed, and her eyes are wide with a mixture of terror and white-hot fury. She looks less like my best friend and more like an interrogator who actually gives a damn.
“Where the hell have you been, Mali?”
