The Interrogation Room
The police station smelled like coffee and fear. Iris had never been inside one before — not as a visitor, not as a witness, certainly not as a suspect. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the gray walls. The chairs were hard plastic, bolted to the floor. The room was windowless.
She sat across from Detective Walsh, her hands folded on the table, the dirt still visible beneath her nails. She had tried to cover it with her sleeves, but the detective had noticed. Of course she had noticed. She was trained to notice.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, Ms. Cole. You’re not under arrest. You’re free to leave at any time. But I hope you’ll stay and help us.”
Iris nodded.
“Can you tell me where you were last night between the hours of 11 PM and 2 AM?”
“I was home. Asleep.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“I live alone.”
“Do you have any security cameras? A building doorman?”
“No.”
The detective wrote something in her notebook.
“The victim’s name was Elena Vance. She was thirty-four years old. She worked as a nurse at Mercy Hospital. She had no known enemies. She lived alone.” Walsh looked up. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Iris shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The detective slid a photograph across the table.
Elena Vance had been beautiful. Dark hair, warm eyes, a smile that suggested kindness. The photograph was from a Christmas party — she was holding a glass of wine, laughing at something off-camera.
Iris stared at the image.
She looks familiar, the voice whispered.
No, Iris thought back. I’ve never seen her.
You have. In the white room.
Iris’s blood went cold.
“Ms. Cole? Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”
The detective studied her. “The witness who placed you in the area — her name is Margaret Chen. She lives in the apartment across from the victim. She said she saw you entering the building around midnight.”
“I’ve never been to that building.”
“She was very specific. She described your coat, your hair, your height.”
“People make mistakes.”
“Sometimes. But Margaret Chen is a former police dispatcher. She’s trained to remember details.”
Iris’s hands were shaking. She tucked them beneath the table.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I was home. Asleep.”
The detective leaned back in her chair.
“Ms. Cole, can you explain the dirt under your fingernails?”
Iris looked down at her hands.
The dirt was darker now, almost black. It seemed to have spread since she arrived at the station, creeping from her nails to her cuticles, from her cuticles to the webs of her fingers.
“I don’t know where it came from.”
“You don’t know.”
“I woke up with it this morning.”
“You don’t remember getting it.”
“No.”
“Ms. Cole, have you ever experienced memory loss before? Blackouts? Periods of time you can’t account for?”
Iris thought about the basement. The hours she had spent in the dark, crying, waiting for her father to let her out. She remembered the beginning of that night, and the end, but the middle was a blur.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The detective wrote something else in her notebook.
“I think we’re done here,” Walsh said. “But don’t leave town, Ms. Cole. I may have more questions.”
Iris stood up. Her legs were weak. She walked to the door.
“One more thing,” Walsh said.
Iris turned.
“We found something at the crime scene. A partial fingerprint. On the victim’s throat.”
Iris’s heart stopped.
“We’re processing it now. If it matches yours, I’ll be back.”
Iris walked out of the station into the cold afternoon air.
The sun was setting, the sky bruised purple, the streets wet with rain that had fallen while she was inside. She stood on the sidewalk, breathing, trying to calm her racing heart.
She’s lying, the voice whispered.
About the fingerprint?
About everything. There is no fingerprint. She’s trying to scare you.
Why would she do that?
Because she knows.
Knows what?
That you’re not who you think you are.
Iris closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was standing in the white room.
The light was everywhere. The silence was heavy. And the figure was there — the older version of herself, standing just a few feet away.
You came back, Iris said.
I never left.
What do you want from me?
I want you to remember.
Remember what?
The figure stepped closer. Her face was Iris’s face, but ravaged — deep lines around her eyes, hollow cheeks, gray hair. She looked like she had been crying for years.
Remember what you did.
Iris woke up in her apartment.
Oliver was curled on her chest, purring. The sun was rising through the window. Her phone was buzzing on the nightstand.
She looked at her hands.
The dirt was gone.
She laughed with relief.
Then she looked at her reflection in the dark screen of her phone.
Her face was older.
And she was smiling.