**==INTEROGATION==** The room they shoved me into was small enough to choke on. Grey walls. Metal table. Two chairs that looked like they’d given up on life years ago. The fluorescent light above me flickered like it was trying to confess something too. My wrists throbbed from the cuffs. They hadn’t even bothered to take them off. I sat there staring at the one-way mirror, wondering who the hell was behind it and why they were taking so long. Were they watching me? Judging me? Waiting for me to crumble? Newsflash: I was already halfway there. The door opened with that heavy police-drama sound I thought only happened in movies. Detective Rowan stepped in first — older, worn, eyes like someone who trusted no one, not even himself. Behind him came Officer Nice-to-Your-Face-Until-He’s-Not, the same one who arrested me. His name tag said Baker. Fitting. Detective Rowan set a thick folder on the table. He didn’t sit. He just hovered over me like a storm cloud deciding whether to strike. “Dakota Williams,” he said, flipping the folder open. “Age seventeen. No record. Lives up on Clark Street. Parents out of the country?” He tilted his head at me. “Convenient.” “I—what? No. My parents aren’t even—” My voice cracked. “I didn’t kill anyone.” Baker snorted. “That’s funny. Because most people don’t end their evening stroll standing beside three fresh corpses.” My throat tightened. “I told you,” I said slowly, like I was explaining math to a toddler, “a man was following me. He shot them.” Rowan finally sat opposite me. Calm. Too calm. That suspicious, calculated calm people have when they’re already sure they’re right. “Describe him.” “I told the 911 lady—tall, black coat, hat. I didn’t see his face.” “Convenient,” Baker muttered again. Rowan ignored him and leaned in. “Dakota, we have three dead teenagers. Bullet wounds to the head. They weren’t carrying weapons. They weren’t chasing you. They didn’t even move toward you.” My heart sank to my toes. Teenagers? God. Rowan slid photos across the table. I didn’t want to look. I still did. The faces were blurred with death, blood, and something I didn’t want to name. My hand flew to my mouth but the cuffs clinked and stopped me. “I didn’t shoot them,” I whispered, voice trembling. “Please. I swear. I don’t even like loud noises.” Rowan tapped the table. “Then explain this.” He pushed a printed still image in front of me. A CCTV freeze-frame. My face. Standing a few feet behind the bodies. Looking directly at the man with the gun. Except the man was blurred — too blurred. The camera caught everything except him. Of course it did. “Looks like you were talking to him,” Baker said, arms crossed. “Friendly, even.” “I wasn’t—he wasn’t—” My voice dissolved. “He told me to go home. That’s it. He saved me. I think.” Both of them stilled. “Saved you?” Rowan repeated. Shit. Wrong phrase. Very wrong phrase. “I mean—he shot them, not me. He… protected me? I don’t know. I didn’t ask him to. I don’t even know who he is.” Rowan closed the file with a soft thud that felt like a gavel slamming. “Dakota, someone executed three teenagers on a quiet residential block. Seconds later, you’re on camera, standing right there, unharmed. And the shooter just… walks away? Leaves the one witness alive?” He raised an eyebrow. “You see how that looks to us.” My eyes stung. “I wasn’t part of it.” Baker stepped behind me. I could feel his suspicion like heat on my neck. Rowan folded his hands. “Tell us the truth. Tell us who you’re protecting. Because nobody kills three people and spares a stranger unless she’s not a stranger at all.” A tremor ran through my spine. “I’m not protecting anyone.” Rowan leaned forward, his voice low. “Then why,” he paused, “did you look scared of the victims before they were shot?” My breath hitched. He knew. Somehow he knew I’d felt watched before the alley guy ever spoke. He knew I’d been followed earlier that week. Or maybe he was bluffing. Either way, I felt my backbone bend. “I want a lawyer,” I whispered. Rowan sat back, expression unreadable. Baker huffed like I’d personally insulted his bloodline. “Fine,” Rowan said. “But I’ll tell you this, Dakota Williams…” His eyes were sharp, a scalpel peeling me open. “Whoever that man is? He didn’t save you. He marked you.” He stood. The door slammed on his way out. And I sat there alone, cuffs digging into my skin, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest. Because for the first time since the shots rang out… I realized he might be right. The shooter hadn’t left me alive. He’d left me next. The silence left behind in the interrogation room was loud enough to bruise. I stared at the mirror, half expecting someone to whisper confess through it. Instead, I saw my own reflection — pale, blotchy, wide-eyed. The kind of face you see on missing-person posters. The door opened again. Not Rowan. Not Baker. A younger officer stepped inside. He looked barely older than me, nervous energy vibrating off him like he couldn’t decide whether to apologize or taser me. “You’re being moved,” he said. His voice cracked on moved. “To where?” I asked. He hesitated. “Holding.” My stomach plummeted. Holding. As in cells. As in bars. As in I am officially not going home tonight. He uncuffed me just to recuff me again in front — the police version of “I don’t trust you but I don’t want to look like a monster.” He guided me down the hallway. I swear the walls were closing in just watching me. We reached the holding area. The bars clanged open. Cold metal. No warmth. No humanity. Just the strong smell of bleach and existential dread. “Sit tight,” he said. And then the bars slammed shut behind me. I sat on the bench — if you could call that sheet of metal a bench — and closed my eyes. For a second, I imagined I was home, in my bed, under my stupid lavender comforter that suddenly felt like a luxury item. Instead, I was shivering under fluorescent lights, listening to a drunk guy two cells over argue with himself. Minutes passed. Or hours. Time does weird gymnastics in places like this. Eventually, I heard voices. Low. Arguing. Tense. “… she’s the only witness—” “—not stable—” “—Rowan wants her held until morning—” “—press already calling—” “—parents unreachable—” Parents unreachable. Of course. Because they didn’t answer calls unless it benefitted them. I curled my knees toward my chest. Another officer walked over — older, with kind eyes, the first sign of humanity since this whole nightmare started. She crouched near the bars. “Dakota?” I looked up. My voice came out small. “Yeah?” “I’m Officer Hale. I just want to make sure you’re alright.” I laughed — a bitter, broken sound. “Does anyone look ‘alright’ in a room like this?” Her eyes softened like she agreed. “I heard about what happened. I know this is a lot.” “Are the police always this good at making innocent people feel guilty?” I asked. She gave me a look — like I’d said something I didn’t understand the weight of. “Detective Rowan is… intense. But he’s not stupid. If you’re innocent, he’ll figure it out.” That didn’t make me feel better. Not even slightly. Officer Hale stood. “Someone posted outside is asking about you.” My heart snagged mid-beat. “Who?” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t give a name. Tall. Black coat. Hat.” My entire body froze. No. No. No. No. No. “He asked if you were safe,” she added. “Said not to let anyone else speak to you.” My throat closed. The world tilted. The metal bench blurred under me. Officer Hale kept talking but her voice drifted into static. He was here. At the station. Watching me. Checking on me. Stalking me? Protecting me? Preparing something else? I couldn’t decide which possibility scared me more. She noticed the panic on my face and gently rested a hand on the bars. “Dakota… do you know him?” I swallowed. “No,” I whispered. “But I think he knows me.” Hale stiffened. Her jaw clenched. “Stay here,” she said, voice suddenly tight, urgent. “Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be back.” She hurried down the hallway. But as soon as she turned the corner — as soon as her footsteps disappeared — something slid under the bars of my cell. A folded scrap of paper. White. Unmarked. My heart slammed into my ribs. I crawled toward it like it might explode. I picked it up with shaking fingers. Unfolded it. One sentence. Written in careful, clean handwriting. You shouldn’t have called them. My blood went cold. Another line underneath it — smaller, almost elegant: I’ll see you soon, Dakota. I dropped the paper like it burned. Because for the first time tonight, I realized something worse than being arrested. I wasn’t trapped in a cell. I was being watched.