Chapter 2: Under Interrogation

"Do the deaths of Tyler Sanders, Benji Ortiz, and Rachel King have anything to do with you?"

Officer Grant sat across from me in the windowless gray room, not wasting any time on pleasantries. The whirring air conditioner was too cold and the chair too hard. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the scratchy hospital blanket, stamped with the blue Mercy General logo, barely keeping out the chill.

I squinted, trying to make out his face, but with my vision as bad as it was, he was just a dark blur in a sea of blurry shapes. All I could see were colors and shadows, nothing more. So I gave up and closed my eyes, listening for clues in his voice.

Shaking my head, I spread my hands in a kind of self-mockery. "Do you think someone as disabled as me could be involved in a murder?" I let the question hang, hoping it sounded more honest than scared.

Officer Grant’s tone was sharp, businesslike: "Answer my question directly. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of Tyler Sanders, Benji Ortiz, and Rachel King?"

I shook my head again. "No."

"Three hours before they died, surveillance caught you sitting on the back of Tyler Sanders’s bike, going out to hang with them. What did you all do?"

"Played digging tunnels."

"Tell me the details."

"That day, Benji Ortiz called and said the three of them wanted to take me out. Because of my eye problem, they rode over to pick me up. We went to an abandoned greenhouse about a hundred yards from Benji’s house to play digging tunnels—which is basically just digging holes in the dirt." I paused, feeling the memory scrape against old bruises. "It sounds stupid, but it’s what they liked."

After saying this, I suddenly looked up, curiosity prickling at the edge of my fear. "How exactly did they die?"

There was no answer for a long time. I figured Officer Grant must think I’m hiding something, so he’s scrutinizing me. The silence stretched until I started counting the ticks of the wall clock, each one echoing in my head.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Officer Grant replied: "The cause of death was an explosion."

My confusion deepened. "But that’s just an abandoned greenhouse. How could there be an explosion? Where did the explosives come from?" I shook my head, trying to process what he said. My heart thudded against my ribs—was he trying to set me up?

Officer Grant didn’t answer my question, but pressed on: "The ignition source was a pack of Marlboro Reds. Surveillance caught you putting it in your pocket when you left. Why did you leave, but the cigarettes stayed there?"

I shrugged. "Isn’t it normal to share good stuff with friends? That was Grandpa’s last pack from before he quit—he kept it tucked in his sock drawer, said it was for a special occasion he never got. The three of them saw it and wanted to try, so I stole it for them." My voice was small, more honest than I meant it to be. In my family, holding onto something special meant saving it for the people you cared about—even if they didn’t always deserve it.

"Lies!" Officer Grant snapped, his patience evaporating. He slammed the table so hard my teeth rattled. "Share, my ass! You think we can’t figure out what your real relationship was? They bullied you for a long time. Even your eyes ended up like this because of them. Why would you willingly go out with them? And share expensive cigarettes?"

I lowered my head and said nothing, letting his words fill the room. The silence felt heavy, like a blanket soaked in cold water.

Officer Grant’s voice softened but turned colder: "They took you out to mess with you, didn’t they? The neighbors all say you’re a good kid. The cigarettes were forced out of you, right? You killed them because you were bullied and held a grudge, didn’t you?"

Suddenly, I laughed—a sound that felt foreign coming from me. As I laughed, I tilted my head back and tears spilled out, hot against my swollen cheeks:

"So you all knew, huh? You all saw them wreck me, and nobody did a damn thing. Not when they dunked my head in the toilet, not when they set off firecrackers in my lap, not even when they stole my eye. Where were you then? Now you show up, acting like heroes."

The more I spoke, the louder I got. My laughter faded, turning into a raw, broken roar:

"Now they’re dead, and the evil they’ve done has become evidence of my crime. You righteous people are here to defend them. It’s ridiculous! Hahaha!" The words echoed off the concrete walls, ringing sharp and true. It was the first time I ever let myself scream at the world.