The inside of the interrogation room was somewhat disappointing.
It was clean, well-ventilated—the air crisp, carrying a wavering scent of chemicals and polished wood that lingered at the back of my throat.
Detective Yaguchi had been casual since the four of us sat down. We each introduced ourselves by name and meaning. The detective then pressed for our achievements, perhaps to loosen the room's tension.
Since Masato and I had empty trophy shelves, the conversation shifted entirely between Yaguchi and Hiro.
For a moment, I found myself invested, even without knowing what the Yankees were—only to discover it wasn't a person at all.
"I'm telling you, Miura is the one to watch this season. Might even become a Hall of Famer," Hiro said with quiet pride, visibly suppressing a smug look.
"He's durable, I'll give you that, but he ain't that special." The detective's formality dropped along with his leg, which had been crossed until now.
Hiro had bested whatever debate had grown between them over the last few minutes, though I couldn't say specifically how. I gave up holding a bat after being struck out by a female pitcher in my third year. The sport went with it.
I shifted in my seat. My right arm ached—a dull, spreading tension in the tricep that always surfaced when I felt cornered. I rubbed at it absently.
"How busy is your weekly class schedule?" The detective glanced over at Masato and me, his complexion still casual and easy—yet his eyes pressed for a response.
I had been too guarded. I realized this before Hiro's easy banter had even begun. I hadn't once looked over at Masato, who sat at the furthest end of the room.
Hiro, seated closest to the detective, began answering for us.
"I often skip homeroom for extra practice. Conditioning for the heat of autumn, you know." He sat up straighter.
I noted his tendency to brag—the way he swung his arms when describing how he pitched a ball. I glanced toward the detective to see how he received it.
His face remained casual, nodding along with Hiro, but those eyes held a faint indifference. Then there was the pen in his hand, and the brief pauses he made each time his gaze drifted in my direction.
"If my team wins the autumn tournament, I'll get picked up by big-name universities…"
I looked from Hiro back to the detective.
Then it clicked.
The guarded stance Hiro had held outside in the hallway—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if silently promising to stay quiet—that version of Hiro had been quietly, involuntarily dismantled. All it took was a thread of shared interest, pulled at just the right angle.
From a single basic question, the detective had grasped Hiro's passions. More than that—his flaws. Hiro loved to boast. He enjoyed controlling his own narrative. A detective's task is, in its simplest form, to observe the flaws of a person's character. Hiro hadn't realized that Detective Yaguchi had merely been melting the frozen butter.
I let myself sink deeper into the chair. I should have focused on my posture, but my mind had begun to reel around a harder question.
What have we done?
Why are we here?
I looked up at the ceiling as though searching for the sky—then remembered that to find the sky, I'd first have to look at the ground.
Was it about Alison? Hiro had let that thought slip before we'd even walked in.
It was a reasonable fear, and not without roots.
Everyone gathered at the police station knew Alison. Everyone in Nagatoro knew Alison—the entire Wedding family, for that matter. Their mansion was hard to miss. But the people in this room knew her more deeply than that. We'd spent the summer with her. We'd been there when things started to unravel.
Still, it was speculation. And for now it remained easy enough to brush off, because Alison was simply at home, unwell.
Last night at the park she had made a promise—something we would both honor. Those tears of hers had watered the seeds of a dream.
I intend to nurture it.
Gripping the arms of the chair, I pulled myself forward.
"Detective—" I wasn't sure whether I had cut through one of Hiro's tangents. Honestly, I didn't care.
I looked past those glasses, trying to meet him from where he stood—to reach him at his level, just as he saw us.
He was already waiting for me. I noticed it immediately: a focus that had quietly sharpened the moment I moved. Had he known I would do this?
That I would react this way?
No. More like he had wanted me to.
I paused—not to steady myself, but the way you hold your breath before diving into an ocean, uncertain of how far down you'll go.
"Why exactly have we been called in? I feel stalling makes this unsettling."
I rubbed my right arm. The dry pain had spread further over my tricep.
The detective replied blankly, moving his glasses higher up his nose as if his answer required some thought.
"Straight to the point, huh? Well, Yoshi Taka, you shouldn't have to feel unsettled. I am not interrogating you, am I?"
It was an open challenge, an invitation—but I had no clue as to why.
He spoke as if I were a guilty child, but beneath the act, I felt as if he viewed me as something more.
"It's just—" I began, but I realized my response was a trail to a dead end, a trap.
I clenched my fist, the right one. The pain in my tricep intensified.
"Just what, Mr. Yoshi Taka?" He pressed, leaning forward in his chair, resting his arms on his legs.
Just what?
I don't know. I feel as if my integrity has been questioned without words.
Should I know the answer to a blank question?
The thought circled back on itself, tightening like a noose. He hadn't accused me of anything. He hadn't even implied wrongdoing. And yet the weight of his attention made me feel as though I'd already confessed.
I forced myself to breathe.
"It's just that if you have questions, Detective, I'd prefer you ask them directly." My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Rather than waiting for us to incriminate ourselves through small talk."
The room went quiet.
Hiro stopped mid-gesture. Masato shifted in his seat for the first time since we'd sat down.
Detective Yaguchi's expression didn't change. He simply tilted his head, studying me the way you might study a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit where you expected.
Then he smiled.
Not warmly. Not coldly either. Just… knowingly.
"Incriminate," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "That's an interesting choice of phrasing, Yoshi Taka. I never said anyone here was guilty of anything."
My stomach dropped.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "But since you're so eager to move things along, let me ask you this: when was the last time you saw Alison Wedding?"
The question landed like a stone in still water.
I felt Hiro's eyes on me. Masato's too.
"Last night," I said. "At the park."
"And how did she seem to you?"
"Upset."
"About what?"
I hesitated. The promise we'd made—it wasn't illegal. It wasn't even suspicious. But something about saying it aloud, here, in this room, felt like handing him a weapon I didn't fully understand.
"She was worried about her family," I said carefully. "About expectations."
Detective Yaguchi nodded slowly, as if I'd just confirmed something he already knew.
"And did she mention anything else? Any plans? Anyone she was afraid of?"
"No."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing that seemed relevant."
His eyes sharpened behind those glasses. "Relevant to what, exactly?"
I realized my mistake immediately. I'd assumed context—assumed this was about something specific. And in doing so, I'd revealed that I believed there was something to be relevant to.
The detective saw it too. I could tell by the way his pen tapped once against his notepad.
"Yoshi Taka," he said quietly, "Alison Wedding didn't come home last night."
The air left the room, along with my soul.