“I didn’t kill him.” My voice stays even, but my palms are slick against my jeans under the table.
Detective Ruiz doesn’t blink. He slides the confession back toward me, my signature smeared at the bottom like a bruise. “Then why did you sign, Ethan?”
Because you gave me two minutes and a promise you never put on paper.
I stare at the one-way mirror. The glass reflects my own face—twenty-eight, exhausted, trying to look like the kind of man who doesn’t crack. “I panicked,” I say.
Ruiz leans in, elbows on the table. “Panic doesn’t write details. Your statement mentions the missing watch. The safe combination. The argument in the hallway.”
My throat tightens. Those details weren’t mine. They were fed to me like a script, one line at a time, while the clock on the wall swallowed the last minutes of my life.
Before they brought me in, Sergeant Mallory had stopped me by the vending machines, close enough that I could smell his stale coffee. “You want your little sister to make it out of this clean?” he’d murmured, eyes on the security camera like he was talking to it. “Then you take the fall. You confess. You save her.”
I didn’t ask how he knew about Lily. That was the point. He knew.
Now Ruiz flips open a folder. Crime scene photos. Blood on a marble floor. The body of Daniel Price—my boss, my mentor, the man who’d promised me a promotion and then called me into his office after hours.
I remember that night in sharp flashes: Price’s office door half open. The smell of expensive cologne. His voice, angry but low. “Tell your sister to stop digging,” he’d said. “This isn’t her story.”
Lily, a rookie reporter, had been chasing a corruption tip that led straight to Price’s real estate empire—and apparently straight into a minefield.
Ruiz’s finger taps a photo. “Your prints are on the whiskey glass.”
“I worked there,” I say, forcing the words out.
“And your car was seen leaving the garage at 10:47 p.m.”
My jaw clenches. I can’t tell him the truth. The truth is a rope around Lily’s neck.
Ruiz stands and walks to the door, then stops. “You know what I can’t figure out, Ethan?” he says without turning. “Why Mallory pushed so hard for your confession.”
My stomach drops. The name hits like a siren.
Ruiz looks back at me, and his voice turns quiet. “Because Mallory was the first one on scene… and he’s the one who ‘found’ the evidence.”
Then the door opens.
Sergeant Mallory steps in, smiling like we’re old friends.
And Ruiz says, “Sit down, Mallory. We need to talk about the phone call you made from Ethan’s sister’s number.”
Mallory doesn’t flinch. That’s what scares me most. He closes the door carefully behind him, like he’s sealing a jar.
“Detective,” he says, nodding once. “Didn’t know this was your case.”
Ruiz gestures to the chair across from me. “Sit.”
Mallory sits, crosses one ankle over the other, hands relaxed on his knee. The kind of calm you only get when you believe you’re untouchable.
Ruiz opens another folder—different from the first. No photos. Just paper. “We pulled your call logs,” he says. “And we pulled Ethan’s.” He turns the page toward Mallory. “At 10:12 p.m., you called a burner number. At 10:13 p.m., Ethan received a text from Lily’s phone: Confess or I’m dead.”
My lungs forget how to work.
Mallory’s smile thins. “Phones get stolen.”
Ruiz nods. “Sure. Then we checked Lily’s location data.” He taps the sheet. “Her phone was at your precinct. In your locker room. For nineteen minutes.”
Mallory’s eyes flick to me—quick, sharp, warning. Like a knife flashed under a coat.
Ruiz continues, steady as a metronome. “And we reviewed the lobby camera from Price Tower. The one that supposedly ‘glitched.’ It didn’t glitch. It was manually overwritten from a login tied to—” He slides the paper again. “—your badge ID.”
Mallory exhales through his nose, almost amused. “Even if that’s true, you’ve got no murder weapon. You’ve got no motive that sticks.”
Ruiz folds his hands. “Let’s talk motive.”
He looks at me. “Ethan, did Daniel Price ever ask you to sign anything… unusual?”
My tongue feels heavy. I can still see the envelope Price shoved across the desk, the legal documents inside. Shell companies. Transfers. A neat little maze designed to hide dirty money. “He asked me to witness signatures,” I say carefully. “I didn’t.”
Mallory’s foot shifts. Just a fraction.
Ruiz watches it. “Price was about to be indicted,” he says. “Your sister’s reporting wasn’t just gossip—it was evidence. And someone inside the department has been protecting him. Killing him now would look like… what, Ethan?”
“A cover-up,” I whisper.
Ruiz nods. “And pinning it on you would close the loop.”
Mallory leans back. “You’re building a story. Not a case.”
Ruiz’s voice stays calm, but the room tightens like a drawn wire. “We also spoke with the lab. That whiskey glass you mentioned, Ethan? Your prints are on it—because you handled it in the office kitchen weeks ago. But the blood spatter on the rim?” He taps the report. “No DNA match to you.”
Mallory’s jaw flexes.
Ruiz pushes one last item across the table: a small evidence bag containing a silver watch—Daniel Price’s watch.
“This was recovered from the trunk of your cruiser,” Ruiz says to Mallory. “Logged by you. Found by you. But the bag was sealed with the wrong tape—tape only used in the narcotics unit.”
Mallory’s eyes harden. “You accusing me?”
Ruiz stands. “I’m saying you tried to bury Ethan to protect someone. And I’m saying Lily’s in danger because you still haven’t told us where she is.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Where is she?” I snap, the first real crack in my voice.
Mallory turns his head slowly toward me, and for the first time, the calm slips.
“Careful, kid,” he says softly. “You already confessed.”
For a second, the room goes silent except for the buzzing fluorescent light. I taste metal again—fear and anger mixing into something sharp.
Ruiz doesn’t sit back down. He steps closer, towering over the table like a judge who’s done listening. “Ethan’s confession is contaminated,” he says. “Coercion. Threats. Chain-of-custody issues. If Lily’s missing, it gets worse for you, Mallory. A lot worse.”
Mallory’s gaze darts to the one-way mirror, and I realize he knows exactly who’s behind it. Or he thinks he does. That’s the thing about men like him—they’re always counting on allies you can’t see.
“I didn’t touch the girl,” Mallory says, voice harder now. “She’s dramatic. Reporters love a stunt.”
My hands clench into fists. “Stop talking about her like she’s a headline.”
Ruiz raises a hand slightly, keeping me in place without even looking at me. “We already issued a BOLO,” he says. “We’re pulling precinct footage. We’re tracking every access log. And I’ve got a judge ready to sign for your devices.”
Mallory scoffs, but there’s sweat at his hairline now—tiny, honest beads that don’t lie. “You’re bluffing.”
Ruiz tilts his head. “Then prove me wrong. Tell me where Lily is.”
Mallory’s eyes lock on mine, and the message is clear: Say one more word and she pays.
I swallow, forcing myself to think like Lily would—cold, methodical. Facts. Leverage.
“Ruiz,” I say quietly, “Mallory didn’t need to kill Price himself.”
Ruiz’s eyes narrow. “Go on.”
I breathe in. “Price had enemies. Business partners. Guys who lost money. Mallory could’ve tipped someone off, opened the building access, wiped the camera, then planted the watch and forced me to confess. He didn’t need blood on his hands—just control.”
Mallory’s lips part, then close. He’s recalculating. That’s when I see it: his right hand, resting on his knee, is trembling. Not much. But enough.
Ruiz notices too. He steps back, opens the door, and speaks to someone outside. “Get me Internal Affairs. Now. And send a unit to 14th and Marlowe—check the storage facility.”
Mallory’s head snaps up. “What storage facility?”
Ruiz looks at him like it’s already over. “The one you paid for in cash. The one Lily’s phone pinged near before it went dark.”
Mallory stands so fast the chair legs screech. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he barks.
Two uniformed officers appear in the doorway. Ruiz doesn’t move. “Sit down,” he says, voice flat.
Mallory hesitates—one heartbeat where he weighs running, fighting, bargaining. Then his shoulders drop a fraction, the first sign of defeat.
And I realize something terrifying: if Lily is alive, it’s because she bought time. With fear. With grit. Maybe with a lie.
Ruiz turns to me, softer. “Ethan, if we find her, you’re going to have to tell the whole truth. Every detail. No more protecting anyone.”
I nod, but my chest aches. Because protecting her was the only thing that ever made sense.
If you were in my seat—if someone you love was on the line—would you confess to a crime you didn’t commit? Or would you risk everything to expose the truth?
Drop a comment with what you’d do, and if you want Part 4—what happens when we reach that storage unit—tell me: Should Ethan go in first, or should he let the cops handle it?
