Davies’s fingers drum a slow pattern on her notepad, the only sound besides the ticking clock. She doesn’t look away. Her gaze meets mine, steady and cool, like she’s measuring how much longer I’ll last in this silence. For a moment, I remember the way she stood in our hallway earlier that week—her shoes just inside the door, mud on the mat, eyes searching every photo on the walls. My mother had tried to make small talk in the kitchen. Davies hadn’t answered.
The quiet settles deeper. The water I drank sits cold in my stomach. Miller’s hand is still close to mine on the table—too close, almost, like he’s waiting to catch me if I fall off the edge of my own story. He glances at Davies, and I catch the flicker of a look: impatient, maybe, or worried that their gentle approach is wearing thin.
Davies finally leans forward. Her voice is low, the words dropped into the stillness. “Emily, we know you’ve been through a lot. But it’s important that you’re honest. Not just for us, but for your mother. She needs you. She needs to know she can trust you, too.”
Her words hit somewhere beneath my ribs. Trust. I almost laugh, but the sound dies in my throat. I want to say something, anything—to break the pressure that’s building behind my eyes. But if I speak, I don’t know what will come out. Not the truth. Not yet.
Davies’s pen hovers over the page. “When was the last time you saw Robert Cole?”
Miller’s eyes are gentle, but I feel the calculation behind them. They’re closing in—little by little, question by question. My jaw aches from clenching it so hard. The secret throbs like a bruise: tell them and everything changes, for me and for her. Lie, and the weight keeps growing until I can’t move.
I force myself to breathe, slow and careful. The clock ticks. The room is so still I swear I can hear my heartbeat. I picture my mother in our kitchen, kettle boiling, hands wrapped around her mug. Her hope a fragile thing, trembling just like the water in my cup a moment ago.
Davies repeats her question, softer this time. “Emily, did you see him the night he died?”
The air feels tight, like there isn’t enough of it. My fingers curl under the lip of the table. The memory flashes—a doorway, a shout, the way the world tilted for a second and never quite righted itself. I squeeze my eyes shut, just for a breath. When I open them, Davies is closer, her concern almost convincing. Almost.
Miller shifts, nudging the folder closer to him. His wedding ring glints in the dull light. “We can’t help you if you don’t let us, Emily.”
I swallow, feeling the shape of the question hang between us. The room closes in. My chest tightens.
A rattle at the door—someone on the other side, fumbling with the handle. Miller’s head turns. Davies sits up straight. The door cracks open and a uniformed officer pokes his head in, eyes darting to Miller.
“There’s… a situation outside,” he says, his gaze flicking to me. “Emily’s mother is here. She’s insisting to see her.”
Miller’s mouth presses into a line. Davies collects her pen, gaze flicking back to me. The air shivers with something sharp and cold—a decision waiting to fall. My mother is just outside. I can almost hear her voice, broken and afraid. The secret is a stone in my throat, heavy and unmoving. Someone will have to break first, and I feel the room leaning toward me, waiting for the first crack.
The clock ticks on, and the silence is anything but quiet.