Dragged to the Station
The metal door slammed behind me, echoing off the cracked plaster of the tiny hallway.
Officer Daniels loomed over the rusted table, his breath stale with cheap coffee, while Officer Ruiz hovered like a shadow, eyes flicking between my hands and the dim bulb overhead.
“Sit,” Daniels barked, pushing a chair toward me.
I sank into the hard plastic, fingers still trembling from the grip of the patrol car.
“You know why you’re here?” Ruiz asked, his tone flat, a notebook already open.
I shook my head, the weight of my phone still warm in my pocket.
“Because a woman went missing last week near the Hartley farmhouse,” Daniels said, sliding a grainy surveillance photo across the table.
The image was a blur of night, a figure huddled under a sagging porch roof, but the face—my face—was unmistakable.
I stared, heart pounding, as the officer traced the outline of my jaw with a thumb.
“Recognize her?” he demanded.
“No,” I whispered, the words catching on a dry throat.
Ruiz leaned in, the fluorescent light catching the glint of his badge.
“Your name is Victoria Hale,” he said, flipping a card. “Your car was the last seen near the property.” The air smelled of old paperwork and disinfectant.
I clenched my jaw, feeling the faint sting of adrenaline.
“I was just driving home,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “You stopped me for no reason.” My eyes flicked to the photo again, searching for a clue.
Daniels narrowed his eyes, his hand resting on his holster.
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered.
