The Detective

The days blurred together. Becker's face haunted me in the 

quietest moments. The weight of her absence gnawed at my mind, 

the tension crawling under my skin, tightening my chest until I 

could barely breathe. 

But it wasn't just her. It was the whole damn city. I could feel the 

whispers, the eyes tracking me when I walked the streets, the 

murmurs in every coffee shop, every crowded subway. 

Everyone knew. Everyone was looking at me. 

It was inevitable. I knew this would happen. But somehow, the 

reality was so much more suffocating than I could have prepared 

for. The fear tasted metallic, bitter, crawling its way into every 

corner of my thoughts. 

It was only a matter of time before someone came looking for me. 

That day came sooner than I expected. 

I was alone in the studio, pacing back and forth, trying to drown 

out the noise in my head when I heard the knock at the door. 

At first, I thought it was just the wind or a neighbor passing by, 

but when it came again—louder this time—I froze. My heart 

thundered in my chest, and I found myself stepping toward the 

door almost instinctively. 

I opened it slowly, my breath shallow, trying to appear calm. I 

wasn't prepared for what I saw. 

A man in a plain black suit stood in the doorway. He was tall, with 

a hard jawline, dark eyes hidden behind thin-rimmed glasses, and a 

look that immediately set my nerves on edge. 

"Are you the artist?" His voice was low, controlled, his words 

carrying the weight of someone who was used to getting answers. 

I swallowed, my mouth dry. "Yes," I managed to say, even though 

the words felt thick on my tongue. 

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. His eyes 

scanned the room, pausing briefly on the paintings hanging on the 

walls, the brushes scattered around the floor.

"Detective Miller," he said, as if his title was supposed to mean 

something. "I'm investigating the disappearance of Becker Lane." 

I felt my stomach twist.

I tried to maintain my composure, but my hands trembled, 

betraying me. "What does she have to do with me?" 

Miller glanced at me with a sharpness that made me feel like he 

could see straight through me. He didn't buy my act for a second. 

"You were the last person seen with her," he said simply, like it 

was the most obvious thing in the world. 

I felt the room close in on me. The walls seemed to shrink, the air 

growing heavier with every second that passed. My mouth went 

dry, my fingers aching as they clenched into fists at my sides. 

I couldn't let him see how nervous I was. I couldn't let him know 

the truth.

I forced a smile, trying to mask the panic building inside me. "I 

don't know anything about her disappearance. We were just—" 

"Just what?" he interrupted, his voice like ice. "Having a friendly 

conversation? You're going to need a better story than that." 

My heart raced, but I stood my ground. "I told you, Detective, I 

don't know where she is." 

Miller wasn't fooled. "I've seen a lot of things in my time, but 

something about this feels off. Becker Lane is not the type to just 

vanish. And you—" He pointed at me, his eyes narrowing. "You don't seem like the type to be just innocent in all of this." 

I wanted to snap at him. Tell him to get out, that he had no idea 

who he was dealing with. But something in his gaze kept me 

rooted to the spot. The way he watched me, like he knew 

something I didn't. 

"Where were you last night?" he asked, his voice colder now. 

My mind raced. I had to think. I had to be careful. If I said the 

wrong thing, if I slipped up, I was finished. 

"I was here," I said quickly, too quickly. My heart hammered in my 

chest, but I forced myself to stay calm. "I was working late".

Miller took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. He was 

studying me now, looking at me like he was trying to peel back the 

layers of my soul.

"I'm going to need you to come with me," he said after a long 

pause, his voice low and deliberate. 

I froze. 

"Why?" I couldn't hide the panic in my voice now. I could feel the 

cold sweat on my neck, my pulse thrumming in my ears. "What do 

you think I've done?" 

"I don't know yet," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "But I'll 

find out."

I wanted to protest. I wanted to shout, to run. But I couldn't. Not 

with him looking at me like that. Not with the certainty in his 

voice.

Miller turned and walked toward the door without another word, his 

footsteps heavy on the floor. 

I stayed in place, rooted to the ground, feeling the world tilt 

around me. I had one moment, one decision, and I had to make it 

count.

It was either him... or me. 

The door creaked open, and I could already feel the weight of my 

fate bearing down on me. 

I needed to act. And fast. 

I hesitated for only a moment. The cool air from the open door 

rushed in, mingling with the heaviness in the room, and I could 

feel my chest tightening, my heart pounding in my ears. I had no 

choice. 

I knew I couldn't let Detective Miller take me anywhere. Not like 

this. Not with him already suspecting me. Not when my past—my 

bloody work—hung like a noose around my neck.

I shifted toward the back of the room, the shadows deepening as 

my mind raced. I couldn't let him arrest me. I couldn't go back to 

the hell I'd crawled out of. The system was designed to destroy 

people like me. People who didn't fit the mold. People who were 

different. 

I'd worked too hard to fall back into the darkness. 

My fingers brushed against the cold metal of the drawer beside the 

painting easel, the sharp edge of a knife gleaming in the low light. 

It was almost too easy to slip it from its place, the smooth handle 

familiar in my grip. The weight of it was comforting, a reminder of 

the control I still had. 

Miller didn't see it coming. His back was turned to me, his eyes 

scanning the room like he was searching for something that didn't 

belong. I watched his movements, the way he glanced at my 

canvases, as if he could find something hidden in the layers of 

paint and blood.

I wasn't going to let him win. 

In one swift motion, I stepped toward him, my breath caught in 

my throat. The knife sliced through the air with a quiet, deadly 

precision. 

But as I lunged forward, the sound of a car door slamming in the 

distance froze me. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. 

The distraction was enough for Miller to turn, and my wrist was 

grabbed in an iron grip. His gaze locked onto mine, and for a split 

second, I saw the truth in his eyes—he had been expecting this. 

"Nice try," he said, his voice almost pitying. "But you're not going 

anywhere."

I tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened. I was caught, 

pinned by my own hesitation. 

He reached into his jacket, pulling out a pair of handcuffs, the 

metal clicking in the dead silence of the room. There was no 

escaping now. 

"You're coming with me," he said, his tone low and unyielding. 

"But if you want to make this easier on yourself, I suggest you start 

talking." 

I didn't respond immediately. I couldn't. My mind was swirling, 

too many possibilities racing through my head, none of them 

good. 

But then the thought hit me—there was another way. There was 

always another way. 

I had to think quickly. I had to outsmart him, outmaneuver him. 

Miller was a good detective, but I was better at this. I knew how to 

manipulate situations. I knew how to make people see what I 

wanted them to see.

But not now. Not yet. I wasn't ready to go down without a fight. 

Instead, I did what I always did best—I lied. 

"I didn't kill her," I said, forcing the words through my throat, my 

voice trembling with just the right amount of fear. "I didn't do it. 

I... I don't know what happened to Becker." 

Miller didn't let go of my wrist. Instead, he just studied me, his eyes 

narrowing. "You really expect me to believe that? After 

everything? After you being the last one to see her alive?"

My pulse quickened, but I held his gaze, determined not to break. 

"I didn't have anything to do with her disappearance. I was just... 

with her that night. We talked. And then she left." 

"Left?" Miller's voice was tinged with disbelief. "And then what? 

You just went on with your life like nothing happened?" 

I could feel my stomach turning. My mind screamed for a way out, 

but I couldn't find it. Every move, every word felt like it was 

taking me closer to the edge.

"I didn't mean for anything bad to happen," I muttered, almost 

too quietly. "But you don't understand. You don't know her. She... 

she was different. I didn't want to hurt her. But it got out of 

control." 

The words felt like poison as they spilled from my mouth, but I 

pressed on. "You have to believe me, Detective. I'm not guilty." 

Miller didn't respond at first, just stared at me for what felt like 

hours, his grip on my wrist unrelenting. His jaw clenched, and I 

could see the gears turning in his mind.

Then, finally, he spoke. 

"You're lying," he said flatly. "And I can see it in your eyes. But I 

need proof. I'll find it." 

I could feel my stomach drop at the finality of his words. The 

detective was going to dig. He wasn't going to stop. He wasn't 

going to let me off easy. 

He was right. I had to make a choice. 

And my choice was clear.