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"Great observation, Sherlock," I muttered, my voice laced with venom. "Now uncuff me before I lose my shit again."
The doctor exchanged a glance with a nurse who stood hovering nearby, her hands wringing the hem of her uniform like she expected me to go full-on Exorcist any second. Without much ceremony, the cuffs clicked open, freeing my wrists. The red marks they left behind screamed betrayal louder than I ever could.
"Officers are here to escort you to the Police Station," Dr. Sterile informed me, like I should be grateful for the change of scenery. Fucking fantastic.
Because every black person in America would be grateful to hear those words, right?
Wrong.
I didn't bother with pleasantries as they helped me onto my unsteady feet. Each step towards the exit was a march of defeat, the click of my heart syncing with the click of their pens, ready to jot down every misstep. They led me outside, where the sharp autumn air of Chicago slapped me hard across the face—nature's own brand of a wake-the-hell-up call.
The backseat of the police car was cold and unwelcoming, but then again, what had I expected? A goddamn limo service with a complimentary bottle of champagne? Yeah, right. The drive to the station was a blur, each turn and stoplight mocking me with its normalcy. If only life had a fucking reset button.
"Ms. Holloway, please, this way," one officer said as we arrived, leading me through the maze of grey, lifeless corridors of the precinct. They must've color-coordinated with my mood when they designed this place.
The interrogation room was straight out of a bad crime drama, cold and impersonal, with a metallic table that looked like it had seen better days—and probably better people too. Two detectives sat waiting for me, their expressions as warm as the room, which is to say not at all.
"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Detective Ice Queen began, sliding a photograph across the table. It was one of my paintings—the twisted form of a body, the colors screaming agony, and the scrawled phrase 'Justice is blind' behind it. My stomach churned. This piece was never meant for anyone else's eyes; it was my silent scream into the void.
"Found this little gem in your apartment," her partner chimed in, a smug tilt to his mouth that made my hands itch to wipe it off. "Care to explain how it ties into the death of your friend? Or should I say, the murder?"
"Fuck you," I spat, all pretense of civility gone. Their accusations were a knife twisting in an already bleeding wound. "That painting is art, not a confession. You think I don't know what you're trying to do? Pin some sick shit on me because you're too incompetent to find the real killer?"
"Watch your tone, Ms. Holloway," Detective Ice Queen warned, her eyes narrowing.
"Or what? You'll handcuff me to the table? Been there, done that." My laugh was hollow, a sound that echoed the emptiness where my will to live used to be.
"Your attitude isn't helping your case," Smug Partner added, leaning back in his chair with a creak.
"Neither is your detective work," I shot back. "So unless you have something more than my own personal artwork to incriminate me, I suggest you start looking for the bastard who actually did this. Because trust me, when I find them, your job will be a hell of a lot easier."
Their stares were cold and calculating, but I held their gaze. Let them see the fire they thought they'd extinguished. They may have cuffed me, sedated me, dragged me here, but they hadn't broken me. Not yet. And as the silence stretched between us, heavy with unsaid threats and suspicion, I knew this was just the beginning. The real game had yet to start.
"Let me get this straight," I said, my voice dripping with as much venom as I could muster. "You drag my ass in here, slap a murder charge on my head, and now you expect me to just open up without any legal counsel? Do I look like I was born yesterday?"
Detective Ice Queen's lips tightened into a line so thin it would have disappeared if she pursed them any harder. Smug Partner shifted uncomfortably, probably realizing they were wading into murky waters.
"Ms. Holloway, you know your rights," Ice Queen conceded, her tone grudging. "But understand this, refusing to cooperate can be seen as?—"
"Obstruction?" I cut her off, not in the mood for another round of their intimidation tactics. "Or maybe it's just someone insisting on not being steamrolled by overzealous cops. Get me a lawyer, and we'll talk. Until then, you've got nothing but a bunch of half-ass theories."
They exchanged a glance, one that spoke volumes of their frustration. I could almost hear the cogs turning in their heads, weighing the odds. The painting—a visceral swirl of crimson and obsidian that had poured from the darkest corners of my soul—it was art, not a confession. And I'd be damned if they twisted it into something uglier than it was meant to be.
"Fine," Smug Partner finally said, tossing a manila folder on the table between us. "For now, you're free to go. But don't even think about skipping town, Holloway. We've got our eyes on you."
"Feels a lot like stalking, doesn't it?" I joked, the ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips despite the hollowness gnawing at my insides. "But sure, play big brother all you want. I'm not the one you should be watching."
The warning was clear in their parting stares. I stood up, every inch of my body rebelling against the charade, the betrayal still festering like an open wound. Aria was gone, her laughter reduced to echoes in my mind, and these clowns thought I had anything to do with putting out that light?
"Remember, Holloway," Ice Queen called after me as I strode out of the room, "we're always close by."
"Can't wait for our next coffee date," I shot back over my shoulder, the bitterness lacing my words more potent than the caffeine I craved.
I walked through the precinct, each step fueled by a mix of rage and an ache so profound it threatened to consume me. They didn't get it—they couldn't possibly understand. The raw, searing pain of losing someone to the shadows, only to be accused of holding the knife yourself.
As I stepped into the chill of the night, I pulled my jacket tighter around me, the fabric unable to ward off the cold reality. Alone, watched, and utterly fucking lost. But if they thought I was going down without a fight, they had another thing coming. Aria deserved justice, and hell itself wouldn't keep me from dragging the truth into the light, no matter who tried to stand in my way.
The Uber's door slammed with a finality that echoed the closing of the interrogation room. I slumped into the backseat, my body deflating like one of those sad balloons left out after a party—a party where the guest of honor never showed because she was busy being dead.
