The questions kept coming. Calm.
Polite. Each one making me feel more guilty despite having done nothing wrong.
That’s the thing about interrogations.
Even innocent people start to feel like criminals.
The door opened suddenly.
A woman walked in. Mid-forties, tired eyes, wearing a café apron dusted with flour and coffee stains.
Behind her stood a man I recognized immediately.
Thin jacket. Red hands. Eyes full of panic.
The father.
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