Chapter 2: The Interrogation

Although Detective Carter acted like he was sincerely seeking my advice, I didn’t want to play along at all.

Every instinct screamed at me to keep quiet. I’d read enough police procedurals to know how this game worked. Years of writing whodunits and thrillers had taught me—never volunteer information when you’re the prime suspect.

I knew perfectly well—he was testing me.

Mike had said that in the morning, the police asked building management for all the security footage, especially for the elevators and stairwells. They checked multiple times and found nothing. That means the only possible suspects are the residents on our floor.

Our building has a standard two-elevator, four-apartment layout. 313 and 314 are on the east, 315 and 316 (mine) on the west, separated by a corridor. And since the corridor is open and visible to the cameras on Building B across the way, the only person who could have done it is me.

I pictured the blueprints, the angles of the cameras, the way every hallway and exit was covered. It was like living inside a locked-room mystery—one I wanted no part of.

It’s obvious Detective Carter’s request for ‘help’ was just a ploy to get me talking.

Maybe in his mind, he’s already decided I’m the killer, but without direct evidence, he’s just being polite for now.

But he’s smart, and I’m no fool either.

This is a murder case—why get myself involved for no reason? If I say too much, even if I’m innocent, I could get dragged down with it. If that happens, even jumping into Lake Michigan wouldn’t clear my name.

The weight of the situation pressed down on me. It felt like my whole life was teetering on the edge of a coin toss, with Detective Carter holding all the cards.

So I tactfully refused. “Sorry, Detective Carter, I really can’t help. My daughter’s still young, and I’m home alone. I have to take care of the baby, do laundry, cook, and earn a living. I really don’t have time.”

I went on and on about how hard it is for a dad to raise a child, hoping Detective Carter would let it go.

He just listened, his eyes narrowing a bit, clearly not buying it. I could feel sweat prickling at my neck, my nerves stretched thin.

But I underestimated how persistent he was. He wouldn’t drop it. “It’s fine, just a chat. Besides, we’ve already notified your wife—she’s on her way back.”

My stomach dropped. I imagined my wife—tired, anxious, struggling with the baby—being dragged into this nightmare. I clutched my phone tighter, the urge to protect my family surging in my chest.

“Why’d you call my wife back? She’s anxious—can’t even handle raw chicken, gets scared of fish. Now that a murder’s happened, you’re dragging her back to worry her even more?”

I got anxious and reached for my phone to call her.

My thumb hovered over her contact, but before I could dial, Detective Carter snatched my phone, his face turning cold again. “Why are you making calls for no reason? Got something to hide?”

I was about to snap back, but Detective Carter said coldly, “A murder happened, of course there’s an investigation. If it weren’t for your young daughter, you’d already be at the station. Stay put. When your wife arrives, you’ll both come with us.”

His words slammed into me like a door shutting in my face. I felt a surge of helpless anger, but I bit my tongue, knowing it would only make things worse.

Now that things were out in the open, I stopped pretending. “So you’ve already decided it’s me? Got any evidence?”

Detective Carter shrugged. “No evidence, but we have plenty of time. Remember, novels are just novels—not real life. Police work isn’t like what you write in your books.”

He smirked, almost as if he enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game. The line between reality and fiction blurred for a moment, and I wondered which of us was playing the better part.

Seeing Detective Carter act so sure of himself, I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I just said, “Then I’ll wait,” and went back inside.

In the bedroom, I hugged my sleeping daughter, kissing her over and over. When my wife finally came back, I reluctantly put our daughter down.

The room was heavy with silence as I watched my wife step inside, worry etched deep on her face. The baby monitor hummed softly, a fragile lullaby against the chaos outside.

“Derek…”

My wife was about to say something, but I saw two female officers behind her. I quickly walked over and hugged her, struggling to hold back tears. My voice cracked as I tried to reassure her, “It’s nothing, just routine questioning. I’ve been away lately—thanks for your hard work. Our daughter needs formula every six hours, five ounces each time. When you add solid food, don’t give too much or she’ll get indigestion…”

I rambled about caring for our daughter until Detective Carter pulled me away. By then, my wife was already crying.

She sobbed into her sleeve, shoulders shaking, her face blotchy and red. The officers looked away, uncomfortable with the raw emotion. Even our daughter, awakened by the noise, began to wail in confusion and fear.

Seeing this, I shouted angrily, “Why are you crying? I’m just going to cooperate with the investigation, not to be executed! You’re an adult—something happens and all you do is cry. What else can you do besides cry?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. My wife cried even harder, and our daughter woke up and started bawling too.

For a moment, the house was filled with wailing.

Annoyed, I strode up to Detective Carter and snapped, “Is this what you wanted? Just wait—when this is over, I’m definitely filing a complaint against you!”

Detective Carter said nothing, just motioned for his colleagues to escort me to the homicide unit’s interrogation room.

The walk to the squad car was surreal. The world outside looked the same—kids’ bikes on the lawn, a mail carrier sorting envelopes, the sun glinting off windshields—but everything felt different, as if I’d stepped out of my own life and into a TV crime drama.

It was my first time at the station, sitting in the suspect’s chair. I wasn’t scared—just found everything a bit surreal.

I glanced around the interrogation room, taking in the metal table, the bolted-down chairs, the mirrored wall that hid silent observers. The chair was so cold it felt like sitting on a slab of ice at a morgue. Everything was clinical, impersonal—designed to break you down.

But as time dragged on, I waited for hours. Detective Carter didn’t return, and no one came to take my statement.

I counted the seconds by the ticking of the wall clock, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the shuffling feet of officers outside the door. My mind raced, replaying every detail of the past week, wondering which moment would be twisted into evidence against me.

Soon, my patience wore thin.

Because it was so damn boring.

Locked in a room barely bigger than a walk-in closet, the lights dim, not even a lamp on, and I wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom. The AC was blasting at full power, and the metal chair was freezing cold. I couldn’t lie down or lean back—uncomfortable in every way.

The cold seeped into my bones, making my teeth chatter. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep warm, but it was no use. Time stretched, elastic and cruel.

Frustrated, I started yelling:

“Detective Carter! Come out! You brought me here to cooperate—so why aren’t you showing up?”

My voice bounced off the cinderblock walls, swallowed by the thick silence. I pounded on the table for emphasis, but no one responded.

“Don’t think I don’t know my rights! Even if I’m a suspect, you can’t mistreat me! The law says when detaining a suspect, you have to provide food and let them rest!”

As the light in the interrogation room grew dimmer, I got more and more irritable.

I wondered if this was a tactic—a game of psychological endurance. The boredom and discomfort gnawed at my nerves, and I fought the urge to curl up on the icy floor and sleep.

But no one answered my shouts, as if they’d completely forgotten about me.

After eight or nine hours, still no one came to take my statement. I was the only one left in the whole interrogation room.

The world outside moved on—cars passing, families having dinner, the city breathing and pulsing—while I remained trapped in this limbo. I stared at the mirrored wall, certain someone was watching. And I knew—one way or another, my life would never be the same.