Split [ONC 2024]

3. Suspect

The neon light burns my eyes, so I keep them closed, waiting.

I already gave my initial statement to the police, so I was left alone in an interrogation room with only the metal table and the clinically white walls keeping me company. 

At some point, the rhythm of my heart slowed down, and I could breathe again. That didn't mean I wasn't still terrified, though. I could hear the chatter outside the door, the endless questions with no answers and the panic. The panic, which I shared, was completely justified. After all, who in their right mind would spread blood over a windshield as if it were butter? Where had it come from? I think they are still testing it, trying to see if it's human or animal. I hope to God that it's animal, even if my heart would break at that, too. But it would be better than the alternative.

My mind somehow drifts to my job. I am beyond late, and since the police took my phone, I wasn't able to call in. It shouldn't matter, but for some reason, it does. I see this as a strange nightmare I've been plunged into, so normal life goes on beyond my drama. There will be consequences eventually. But I won't consume myself with them now. I have other matters to handle, at least for now.

The door opens, and the detective who interrogated me before enters the room, this time holding a file in his hand. His tweed suit seems very inappropriate in the sterile environment, but I appreciate the bit of color. When he sits, he lets out a heavy sigh. His light blue eyes move from the papers to me.

He is a handsome man, with his angular jaw and dirty blond hair. I noticed that from the moment he questioned me the first time. I'm not sure why it matters, but it does make me feel a bit more comfortable. Seeing the concerned look on his face brings me a strange sort of solace. It makes me feel as if someone cares about my fate, as if I matter. As if I'm important.

The man who makes me feel this way should be Steve, but at the moment, I'm not sure if he's not the one responsible for all my fears. I wish I could scream that he isn't, but I don't know. His wounds, his strange attitude this morning... It sunk doubt into my heart.

"So, Mrs. Romney," the detective says. "Are you sure you don't need a lawyer?"

"I am a lawyer," I answer, even if I specialize in M&A and haven't touched criminal law since college. It doesn't matter, the principles are the same. I'm innocent until proven guilty, and I didn't do anything anyway.

He nods, though he doesn't seem to find my words reassuring. "Can I see your hands?"

That's an odd request, but I don't see the harm in it, so I reach them forward. He takes them, and the warmth of his skin sends a shiver through me. He turns them over as he begins to speak.

"We've spoken to your husband, too. He denies any implication in what happened."

I nod because I do hope with all my heart that Steve isn't involved. The detective - I unfortunately forgot his name - continues to turn my hands, analyzing every inch of them. His scrutiny flusters me, and I do my best to keep things professional.

"He, however, claims that you did that number on his face."

I stiffen, and he has to pull my fingers to turn them. "What? I did no such thing! I told you, when I came down from the bedroom, he was already gathering the shards, and I didn't even see those scratches on his face until we were out in the street. Surely, one of our neighbors would've mentioned me clawing his face off."

"Clearly." He finally releases my hands. "His scratches indeed appear new since he was still bleeding when we picked him up. You wouldn't have had time to scrub yourself clean. Not that well. Your nails are perfect."

"Thank you!"

"We will, however, need your fingerprints."

His affirmation startles me. "But you said..."