I couldn't think of anything else in that moment. My mind was too full, too tight, like something inside me was pressing against my thoughts. I followed the officer down the hallway and into the interrogation room, forcing myself to stay steady even though the air in that place felt wrong—too controlled, too cold, like it was built to make people break down slowly.
They asked questions. I answered them. Simple, direct, nothing emotional. But as the questions continued, I started to understand the shape of what had happened.
Last night, someone said they found kyanine inside Macy's bar. A large amount. But the timing didn't make sense. If it was real concern, why wait until today to report it? That delay alone felt intentional, like someone had carefully chosen when to strike.
After the interrogation, I finally saw Macy.
