Her lips are full, her face soft and round. Her figure isn’t impressive—nothing about her is, really. The answers she gives are simple, her expressions full of what seems like genuine empathy.
Detective Ritz, my partner, flashes pictures of victims and questions her persistently. He can be intimidating to most—buzzed head, broad frame, a constant scowl—but this woman remains calm. I see his agitation, the vein bulging at his temple. His questions grow sharper, but she is unwavering.
“What do you think, D?”
“I think Ritz is a few moments away from choking her in that metal seat.”
“No, about her.”
“She’s our killer, no doubt. But this is way out of our league. She isn’t just our killer—this woman has been doing this for years.”
Gin, my other partner, looks at me, questioning.
Ritz cracks the door open, interrupting whatever she was about to ask me.
“D, she’s all yours. I’m seconds away from choking this weird bitch.”
Mentally, I sigh. This was bound to happen from the beginning.
Detective work is more than investigating or tracking people down. Interrogation—proving guilt—is dirty work. You sit inches from filth, so close you can smell the blood on them. I’ve seen detectives run out and vomit in the hallway. That’s why we keep a trash can just outside the door now.
In that white room, the rest of the world disappears. It’s just you and the filth. And it would be so, so easy to erase that filth forever.
Hands cuffed to the table. Nothing stopping you.
I’ve seen detectives cross that line, only to be pulled back at the last second.
Interrogation is where weak detectives get crushed by the will of criminals.
I am the best at doing the crushing.
I exhale slowly, placing a hand on Ritz’s shoulder.
“I’ve got it from here.”
I step past him and grasp the doorknob. For a moment, I clear my mind. Usually, when I enter, I keep my head low, avoiding a glance at them until I’m seated.
This time, I don’t lower my gaze fast enough.
I see her.
For a brief second, the facade is gone.
Her eyes—low. Her brows—relaxed. Her plump lips thinned into a straight line.
By the time I sit down and look again, it’s back.
“Where did Ritz go? Our conversation was getting interesting,” she says, voice soft, almost cute.
I don’t respond. I grab the files and gather them back into the brown folder.
“Liora Vale,” I start.
“That’s me.”
“Ritz went over why we brought you in, yes?”
“He did, and it’s terrible, sir. Those poor people. I didn’t even know this area was that dangerous.”
The way she speaks—it’s so empathetic. So genuine.
“When did you move here, L-i-o-r-a?” I drag her name out.
“Maybe a year ago? No, wait—it’s actually been two years.” She smirks.
“And how old are you?”
She blushes, almost playfully. “Asking a woman her age? How bold. I turn 37 this year.”
Lie.
She’s listed as 37 on paper, but she’s no younger than 50. From the other side of the window, you wouldn’t tell, but up close—the hidden lines beneath her makeup, the wrinkles on her fingers, the outfit just slightly out of touch with youth.
“37 with no kids, hmm? And a sudden move wi—”
She cuts me off. “Who said I don’t have kids?”
“You don’t.” I lean forward slightly. “I can see it in your eyes. You don’t have the tenderness it takes to nurture one.”
I bait her intentionally.
She chuckles softly. “Not all women are blessed with the ability to give life, detective.” A touch of melancholy in her voice.
“Not all women are blessed with the ability to take it either, L-i-o-r-a.”
A flicker. A split-second shift in her expression.
“I haven’t taken anyone’s life, detective. I couldn’t even sleep at night knowing blood was on my hands. Those p-pictures Ritz showed me—it’s terrible what happened to those people. But I could never do such a thing.”
Listening to her plead almost makes me want to spit at her.
The stench of blood clings to her, thick, suffocating.
She’s probably getting off just talking about how she couldn’t do it—knowing damn well she’d gut me if given the chance.
“Ms. Vale, I understand. This will all end quickly, then, with your cooperation.”
She nods sincerely.
“Take me through what happened on January 9th with James Davis.”
“Ahh, James.” A slow smile spreads across her lips. “James and I had been seeing each other for a while. He was a true gentleman. That night, we had dinner, a couple of drinks at the bar before it got too late. Then I told him I had to go, and we parted ways. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Except that’s not how it ended.”
“I did not,” she snaps before I can continue.
“James was a good man, and I think I lov—”
“You don’t know what love is, you sick bitch!”
She gasps, covering her mouth. Offended.
“Drop the act.” I lean in. “I know you’re just itching to show someone the real you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I can read you like a book. Your name isn’t Liora, and you’re not 37. Those are stolen identities.”
A crack.
She lowers her head. “I think I need a break, detective.”
I exhale. “A normal person blinks 15 to 20 times a minute in a relaxed state. It decreases under stress—10, maybe 15 times. Under extreme anxiety, it increases—30, even 50 times per minute.”
A pause.
“You, L-i-o-r-a, don’t blink at all.”
She lifts her head. The soft features are gone.
Her eyes—cold. Hollow.
“You’re right, detective.” Her voice has changed completely.
“I haven’t shown my true face in so, so long.”
She digs her fingernails into the metal table, scratching. A high, grating screech fills the room. She doesn’t stop until blood seeps from her fingers.
“Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I last killed. Do you know what that’s like? It’s like suffocating in space.”
She wraps her hands around her throat. “Never knowing when you’ll actually lose air.”
“How many have you killed?” I seize the moment.
“Hundreds. Thousands. Do you count the people you introduce yourself to since birth?”
“How many in this town?”
“47.”
“Where is the last per—”
She raises a hand. “I have a question, d-e-t-e-c-t-i-v-e.”
I stiffen. There’s a weight in the air now, thick and suffocating.
She leans in, her fingers still slick with blood, trailing them idly along the surface of the table. The sharp scent of iron taints the sterile room.
“Tell me, detective…” She tilts her head slightly, her smile slow, creeping. “How many of us have you actually locked up?”
I don’t respond.
“Hundreds? Thousands? It’s impressive, really. You find us so effortlessly, like you have some kind of…” She taps her temple. “Instinct for it.”
I glare, unmoving.
“And have you ever—just once—wondered why?”
She’s drawing me in, and I know it. But my throat tightens anyway.
“It’s because I’m good at my job.”
She laughs—soft at first, then rising, until it’s bouncing off the walls, shrill and full of something close to joy.
“Oh, detective.”
My pulse hammers against my ribs. I hate that she’s getting under my skin, but something about this moment—about her—feels different.
She sighs, almost wistful. “You don’t see it, do you? Even now.”
I force my voice steady. “See what?”
She leans back, pressing her hands flat against the table, studying me like I’m an animal in a cage.
“How your team looks at you. Uncomfortable how smoothly you sit across from us, relaxed as can be.”
I scoff. “You’re trying to play mind games—”
“Oh, but I’m not. I’m just saying what’s true. Think about it, detective.”
A prickle of unease crawls up my spine.
“I’ve met your kind before. The ones who get a little too close. Who linger just long enough for their reflection to start looking unfamiliar.”
She drums her fingers on the table, then raises one, pointing.
“Tell me, detective… do you know how many times you’ve blinked since sitting down?”
I don’t answer.
“Fifteen.”
Her grin widens, slow, stretching.
“Relaxed as can be.”
A cold pit settles in my stomach.
“Afraid to speak?” She breathes the words, eyes locked onto mine. “Or do you already know I’m right?”
I shift slightly in my chair, glancing just barely to the right—toward the two-way mirror, where I know Gin and Ritz are watching. Where I don’t need them to be watching.
But I don’t see them.
I see my own reflection.
And for the first time, I notice—really notice—the eyes staring back.
Not hardened. Not cold.
Empty.
A hollowness I’ve ignored for too long.
She chuckles, her fingers curling against the metal table.
“That’s the thing about people like us, detective.”
The blood on her fingertips smears against the surface.
“We know when we see our kind.”
I can’t move.
The silence between us stretches, but I can feel something shifting. A weight in the air.
Liora watches me, patient. Knowing.
She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur.
“I never planned to run from you, detective. I never needed to.”
Something in her tone makes my jaw tighten.
“Because I already had help.”
My fingers curl against the table. “Help?”
Her smile widens, slow, stretching.
My pulse quickens.
She chuckles, shaking her head. “You were never chasing me in this game. You were the target.”
I want to call her bluff, to rip apart whatever bullshit story she’s spinning—but then I see it. The way she’s watching me, eyes bright with amusement. The way her body is loose, relaxed, completely at ease in this interrogation room.
Because she knows exactly what happens next.
Because they planned this.
The pieces start clicking into place.
The gaps in this case. The way Ritz pushed me to take this interrogation. The way Gin watched me just a little too closely.
My blood runs cold.
I glance toward the mirror—toward the reflection I thought they were watching from.
But I already know.
They’re not watching.
They’re waiting.
Liora sees the realization hit. Her smile is dazzling now, wicked and triumphant.
The door creaks open.
Footsteps.
“D.”
Ritz’s voice. Low, unreadable.
I don’t turn.
Gin steps in behind him. The door clicks shut.
I exhale, slow and steady, my hands flat against the table. “So that’s how it is.”
Ritz doesn’t answer.
A click. The unmistakable sound of a gun being unholstered.
“It’s over,” he says.
Liora hums under her breath, tilting her head as she watches them. “Took you both long enough.”
They haul me to my feet. Put my arms behind my back. My body moves on instinct, but my mind lingers—stuck in the moment just before it all unraveled.
I glance back at her.
But it’s not the look she expects.
Instead, it’s my first time really introducing myself to her.
A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Not forced. Not feigned. Something real—something deep.
Her grin falters, just for a fraction of a second.
She sees it now.
For the first time, the confidence in her eyes wavers. The game she thought she was playing—the control she thought she had—it slips, just a little.
Because in that moment, she isn’t looking at a man backed into a corner.
She’s looking at something she doesn’t understand.
And for the first time… Liora feels fear.
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