He was smiling again—that slow, arrogant curl of the lips like he’d already won.
The interview room at Midtown Precinct smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant, the kind of clean that never actually feels clean. Detective Alvarez stood behind the one-way glass, arms folded, watching me like I was the problem. And maybe I was. Because I’d insisted on being here.
My name is Rachel Collins. I’m a civilian crime analyst—numbers, timelines, habits. I don’t chase. I don’t cuff. I don’t sit across from men like Evan Mercer unless someone begs me to.
“Tell me,” I whispered, forcing my voice steady, “how many did you plan before you ever touched a knife?”
Evan’s eyes were a calm, polished blue—expensive, intentional. He leaned forward, elbows on the metal table, like we were sharing drinks instead of body counts. “All of them.”
I swallowed hard and slid the folder open. The crime scene photos were facedown, because I’d learned what happens when you stare too long. The report on top was what mattered: timestamps, access logs, chain of custody. The facts that don’t bleed.
Then I saw it.
At the bottom of the last page: an authorization signature to release evidence from lockup. In ink, clear as day.
Rachel Collins.
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might throw up right there on the table.
“That’s not—” I started, but the words stuck. Alvarez banged on the glass. The officer at the door reached for his radio.
Evan laughed softly, like he’d been waiting for me to catch up. “You helped me.”
I slammed the file shut. “I’ve never signed that.”
“You did.” He tilted his head. “Or you will. That’s the beauty of it. Everyone trusts the smart girl.”
My hands were shaking. I tried to remember every place I’d been, every form I’d touched, every time someone had asked for “just a quick consult.” And then I remembered the tablet they’d passed around at the last briefing—sign here to confirm attendance. I’d scribbled my name without looking.
Evan’s smile widened. “Lights out in three… two…”
The overhead fluorescents snapped off.
For half a second, the room was pure black.
And someone behind me said, close enough for their breath to hit my neck, “It’s your turn.”
The chair scraped hard against the floor as I jerked around, but I hit nothing—just darkness and the sharp edge of panic. I heard Alvarez yelling through the glass, the muffled thud of fists on the door, and the thin, ugly hiss of a radio dying mid-transmission.
A hand clamped over my mouth.
Not Evan’s. This grip was rough, confident, practiced. My wrists were pinned to the table with a zip tie that bit into my skin like a plastic saw.
“Stay quiet,” the voice murmured. Male. Not young. Not rushing. “If you scream, you make this messy.”
In the dark, Evan’s silhouette shifted, calm as a man watching a movie. “Rachel,” he said gently, almost kindly. “Meet Officer Grant.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. Officer Grant—Alvarez’s partner. The guy who always joked in the hallway, who called me “Profiler Barbie” and brought donuts on Fridays. The guy who had access to everything.
The lights snapped back on.
Grant was behind me, one arm around my shoulders like we were posing for a photo. His badge glinted. His other hand held a small syringe.
Alvarez finally forced the door, but he froze in the doorway when he saw the scene: me restrained, Grant in uniform, Evan seated like a witness. Alvarez’s gun came up.
“Grant,” Alvarez barked. “Step away from her. Now.”
Grant smiled—tight, resentful. “You always did listen to her, didn’t you?” He pressed the syringe closer to my neck. “She walks in with a spreadsheet and suddenly she’s the smartest person in the room.”
Evan’s tone stayed smooth. “Don’t hurt her, Daniel. We need her breathing.”
Need her.
My mind raced through the report again. The signature. The evidence release. If Grant was in on it, he could pull items from lockup and pin it on me. And Evan—Evan was enjoying every second, like this was his final exam and I was his favorite problem.
Alvarez took one step forward, and Grant tightened his grip. I felt the needle kiss my skin.
“I swear I didn’t sign that evidence release,” I choked out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Check the camera. Check the log. Grant had access—”
Grant laughed. “Cameras glitch. Logs get edited. That’s how the world works, Rachel.”
Evan nodded, approving. “See? She learns fast.”
Alvarez’s eyes flicked to mine—one silent question: Can you get free?
I shifted my hands under the table, searching for anything. My fingertips hit the corner of the metal file clip. Sharp enough. I sawed at the zip tie, slow, tiny movements, praying Grant wouldn’t feel it.
Alvarez kept talking, buying me seconds. “Grant, whatever this is, you can still—”
“Save it,” Grant snapped. “I’m not the one who’s about to take the fall.”
The tie finally gave with a tiny snap. I didn’t waste it. I threw my elbow back into Grant’s ribs and shoved forward, hard, knocking the syringe away. Alvarez fired—not at Grant, but at the ceiling light, shattering glass, plunging half the room into strobing shadows.
In the chaos, Grant bolted for the hall. Evan stayed seated, watching me like a chess piece he’d already moved.
As Alvarez chased Grant, Evan leaned toward me and spoke low, almost affectionate.
“You know what’s going to happen next,” he said. “They’ll find that you ‘signed’ more than one form. And when they do… who do you think they’ll believe?”
Then he smiled again—arrogant, patient.
“Run, Rachel. Prove you’re innocent. It’ll make the ending better.”
I didn’t “run” like a criminal. I walked out with Alvarez beside me, because leaving like I belonged was the only move that kept me alive.
But the moment I got home, the reality hit like a punch: my work laptop wouldn’t connect to the department network. My badge access was “temporarily suspended.” And my phone lit up with a voicemail from Internal Affairs requesting I “come in voluntarily” regarding “irregularities in evidence handling.”
Irregularities. That’s what they call a noose when they want it to sound polite.
I sat at my kitchen table, hands wrapped around cold coffee, and rebuilt the past two weeks the only way I knew how—timeline first, feelings later. The briefing tablet. The digital signature pad. The times Grant “helped” by offering to file forms for me. The strange gaps in the access logs that only an insider would know how to hide.
Then I remembered something small: Evan had said, “Lights out in three… two…” like he’d known the building’s electrical pattern.
I drove to the precinct parking garage and waited, watching the maintenance door. At 2:17 a.m., a man in a city utilities jacket walked out carrying a tool bag. He moved like he knew exactly where the cameras weren’t.
I followed him—two car lengths back—until he pulled into an industrial lot behind a closed print shop. And there, under a flickering sodium light, was Officer Grant’s unmarked sedan.
My hands went slick on the steering wheel.
I called Alvarez from a burner phone I’d bought with cash, because paranoia suddenly felt like common sense. “It’s me,” I said. “Don’t speak—just listen. Grant’s meeting someone at Harrow Street, behind the old print shop. If you still think I’m clean, bring backup. If you don’t… bring cuffs.”
Alvarez arrived ten minutes later with two units and a warrant he’d pushed through on pure instinct. We watched from the shadows as Grant handed the utilities guy a thick envelope and a flash drive.
Alvarez stepped out first. “Daniel Grant! Hands where I can see them!”
Grant froze—then reached for his waistband.
A second officer tackled him before he could clear leather. The utilities guy ran, but he didn’t get far.
When they opened the envelope, I saw the corner of a form with my name on it—my forged signature in perfect ink. When they plugged in the flash drive, Alvarez’s face went hard.
“Video,” he muttered. “Grant staging the lockup release. Grant moving evidence. Grant—”
He stopped, because the last file name on the list made my skin go cold.
COLLINS_CONFESSION_FINAL.mp4
Evan had prepared a “confession” in my name. Not just to frame me—he wanted to end me.
Alvarez looked at me. “Rachel… you did the right thing.”
I nodded, but my eyes drifted to the precinct across the street, where the lights still burned in the interview wing.
Because Evan Mercer was still in custody. Still smiling. Still waiting for the next move.
And in the quiet after the arrests, I realized the worst part: Evan didn’t need Grant forever. He only needed him long enough to prove a point—how easy it is to turn trust into a weapon.
So here’s my question to you: If you were in my shoes, would you go back into that interview room to confront Evan one last time… or would you walk away and let the system handle it?
Tell me what you’d do—and why—because the choice I make next changes everything.
