Hunted

Chapter Two

She was so small.

Darkness cloaked the dank interrogation room, shadowing the expression on the young woman's face. Golden hair draped across her features even further, greasy and tangled as it hung over her angular shoulders. From her height to her weight, everything about her screamed meek. The slump of her back, the way she shrunk into herself, and the ruffled state of her clothing only contributed to the fact.

Across the slick, metal table, a steaming cup of coffee mocked her. Clearly, it wasn't hers and one certainly wouldn't be made available to her. The white sheen of its mug ceramic finish clashed terribly with the dark space of the room, but from what'd they'd seen, the effect must be intentional. It set his nerves alight in distress. In his medical opinion the psychological effect wasn't needed for this case. His face scrunched in resignation. He couldn't do anything now.

"You gonna talk yet?" Meanwhile, the other figure in the room, a hulking enforcer of the Charleston Police Department, picked up the coffee with a meaty hand. "We been through this, you ain't going anywhere. Might as well make this easier on yourself."

The woman hugged herself. Arms too thin for her age shivered as they locked around her stomach. Malnutrition. None of the watching party expected a reply, the young woman's voice absent since the beginning of the interrogation. Around the viewing screen, their demeanors remained cool even as the filmy figure of the officer slammed the cup into the table's surface. There wasn't a flinch and only a few of his brothers' faces showed any type of disapproval. As something sick lodged in his chest, he knew his was one of them.

"Girl," the man lumbered toward her, "Speak up, dammit!"

The suspect flinched, a miniscule gasp escaping her throat. Their attention peaked. On the screen, the file held in the officer's hands crinkled as his grip tightened. That single moment had been the most reaction they'd seen throughout the hour-long video. Displaying multiple symptoms of shock.

"I didn't..." through the video, her voice cracked with unease. "I didn't kill her, sir."

Setting the likely cold coffee down, the officer smiled with a sort of grim satisfaction. It was the expression Sean had seen in too many crime documentaries and his stomach lurched. Leaning his elbows against the table, the interrogator lurched forward, "Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me, girl. What's your alibi?"

The weak whisper was almost drowned out by the rumble of the rooms air conditioner, "I was at school."

"Yeah, we know," the officer relaxed back into his seat with a self-assurance Sean found repulsive, "That ain't the issue though. We got your records-- all one of 'em. You ever even been to middle school, Sorensen?"

The girl's arms constricted around herself before she whined. The sound was as fleeting as it was unexpected, but Sean couldn't stop the cold wash of sympathy that dripped down his spine. She understood what was happening and for a moment, his gaze couldn't linger any longer. The girl looked so vulnerable, so weak. Beside him, he heard North's scoff as his younger brother pushed his chair away from the television monitor.

When she finally responded, Mrs. Sorensen said the first of many damning words, "No sir... my mom... she— I was homeschooled until we moved here."

"Huh," the officer didn't even glance at his files, simply choosing to raise a scruffy eyebrow instead, "You don't sound so sure about that."

Blonde hair fell back over her expression as her head shook. Synchronizing his response with her own, Sean whispered his diagnosis with her next words, "I'm sorry, I'm shocked--"