The fluorescent lights buzzed low and constant above us, casting a flat, sterile sheen across the interrogation room. Everything in here was either gray, white, or peeling slightly at the corners—like even the furniture was tired of pretending to be neutral.
I didn't sit right away.
Just watched her.
Mary Steward. Fifteen years old, give or take a hard year. Shoulder-length hair, unevenly cut like she'd done it herself in a bathroom mirror. Red sneakers that were too clean to be worn often. One fingernail on her left hand chipped down the center. Her hoodie sleeves stretched past her wrists, swallowing her hands like armor she didn't know how to remove.
She looked calm.
But not peaceful.
It was the sort of calm that came from learning how to lock the doors inside your own head. A rehearsed stillness, built over time. Not the kind that comes naturally.
She stared back at me with that same unsettling quiet. No smirk. No defiance. Just... unreadable.
