Detective Miller sits across from Lexi, his suit crisp and unyielding, a man who moves through these rooms with centuries of power behind him. The chipped table between them is wide, but not wide enough to make Lexi forget that she is very much under his gaze. He folds his hands, fingers interlaced, and studies her with a patience that is almost tender. Almost.
"You want coffee? Water?" he offers, his voice soft but inflected with something that warns her: Listen carefully. Every word counts. Lexi shakes her head, jaw tight. She can taste metal—fear, or maybe just the memory of the handcuffs.
He waits a beat, then pushes a notepad toward her. "You were at the park. You know why we're here. This doesn't have to get ugly, Lexi. Help us out, and this ends quickly. For you. For your friends."
Lexi’s mouth is dry. She looks down, fixing her eyes on the scratch marks carved into the lacquer of the table. She has no idea who put them there, but she wonders if they meant anything—a final plea, some desperate message. Miller leans forward, his elbows on the table, voice lowering almost to a whisper.
"You know we caught you with a phone, cash. Your friends—Dan, Samuel, Rebecca—are on camera. This is bigger than you think." He hesitates, and Lexi sees the calculation in his eyes. "You're eighteen, Lexi. This is adult court."
Something shifts in her chest. A cold block of anxiety wedges just beneath her ribs. She glances up, meeting his eyes. He is relentless, but there is something almost sad in his expression, as if he’s watching a slow-motion car wreck.
He slides a single photograph across the table. Dan’s face, mouth twisted mid-shout, caught in the blur of their flight. "Where did Dan go? Where are the others?"
Lexi's pulse hammers. She says nothing. The silence frays Miller’s patience only slightly. He taps the photo. "You're not a bad kid, but if you take the fall for everyone, it’s you they’ll charge. Distribution, for starters. If you care about your family… your mother…"
That lands. Lexi’s breath catches. Images flicker through her mind: her mother’s tired hands, the note on the fridge, the apartment with its thin walls and thinner hope. She bites the inside of her cheek, refusing to let the fear show. She must not break.
Miller sits back, reading her resistance. He gives a small, rueful smile. "You're protecting them. I get it. I do. But do you think they'd do the same for you?"
The words linger. Lexi can't help but imagine Dan running, Bec's terrified grip, Samuel’s sharp mind calculating every exit. Would they be sitting here, silent, for her?
The detective leans in one last time, voice gentle and menacing at once: "We’re not done, Lexi. Think about it. I’ll give you a minute. My advice? Don’t be the hero. Heroes get crushed."
He stands, the scrape of his chair echoing through the tile and concrete. He leaves Lexi alone in the twilight hum of the room. Her thoughts spiral, the air thick with the scent of old sweat and fried nerves.
Through the glass slit in the wall, the corridor is empty. But footsteps are coming—another officer, maybe, or Miller himself. She knows she has choices, and the moment to make them is almost here. Her hands tremble. She watches the door, every second stretched taut as wire.
The handle turns. The hinges creak. The next move is hers, and the world holds its breath.