Chapter 3: I Really Didn't

I place my handcuffed hands on the cold, metallic table, the clink of the chains echoing in the silent room. My palms are sweaty, and my heart races as I look up, meeting their eyes with a mixture of desperation and determination. "Look, I swear it's not me," I plead, my voice trembling slightly but filled with conviction. "You've got the wrong person. Yeah, I wrote the book but I never murdered anyone. Someone might have used my character to murder someone and frame me." That's the only plausible explanation. I never thought someone would read my book and decide, 'Sounds cool let's try it in real life'. Please tell me I'm just living through a horrible nightmare.

Detective Rain nodded thoughtfully, her hand finding its way to her hip as she brought the picture close to her eyes. Her expression was inscrutable, framed by a curtain of dark hair that fell in loose waves around her face. The room's dim light glinted off her badge, the only hint of authority in her otherwise casual demeanor. She remained silent for a moment, weighing her words carefully before finally speaking. "That's a possibility, but for now, you're the main suspect," she declared firmly, her voice betraying none of the doubt that flickered briefly in her eyes. I watched her closely, trying to read the thoughts behind her hazel eyes as they scrutinized me.

Cain grabs the chair across the table and tosses it to the side leaving him space to lean on the table. His large calloused hands splayed out pressing into the table with a menacing force. He then leans in, his rough, scarred face coming uncomfortably close to mine. The network of scars—deep, jagged, and rough—etched across his cheeks and forehead, marked his face His dirty blond hair, cut short but unkempt, framed his hardened features. I look to the side trying to avoid eye contact.

The scent of him—a blend of sweat and something sharper—hung in the air, intensifying the oppressive atmosphere. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto mine with a steely gaze. The bulk of his presence, combined with the intimidating angle and the sheer proximity, made it clear that he intended to unsettle and dominate me.

His hands turn into tight fists. "That's not a possibility. I'm telling you, I worked here for over a decade. My instinct is that of tigers. I know these types of murderers. When they feel bored or guilty they end up writing a novel of their own crimes." 

I'm sick of this guy and this stupid power play. They haven't even presented any proper evidence against me. I mean it's not like they'll find any because I didn't do it. Is the warrant they showed me earlier even real? "Do you have any actual evidence against me?" I queried. I'm almost certain they just want to threaten me and push me to confess so they can just close the case.

"It's circumstantial evidence but we can still interrogate you," Cain states; crossing his legs as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Is he seriously about to smoke in here? In this small, windowless room?

They're trying to pressure me into giving a false confession. Well, they got the wrong guy. I watched too many crime shows to fall into their mediocre mind games. I'll be doing the questioning here. This type of harassment should end in a lawsuit.