Chapter 3: The Crowd and the City

When the interrogation room door opened again, three hours had passed.

The fluorescent lights had grown harsher, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne thickening. I’d memorized every stain on the tile by then.

This time, along with the police, they brought in an old acquaintance.

My homeroom teacher, Ms. Carter.

I thought she’d look at me with the same disgust as everyone else, but to my surprise, her first reaction on seeing me was to burst into tears.

Her face crumpled, hands trembling as she rushed forward. It was like she’d been holding her breath since the news first broke on the local channel.

"Emily, how could you do such a thing?"

She rushed over and hugged me, sobbing so hard she could barely speak:

Her embrace was warm, her cardigan scratchy against my cheek. I stiffened, unused to comfort, but she clung to me as if trying to will away the nightmare.

"There must be some reason, right? Sweetheart, if you have any grievances, tell me, okay? I just can’t believe you could do something like this."

Her tears splashed onto my shoulder, and for a split second, I remembered the way she’d pressed extra snacks into my hands during lunch hour, always looking out for the kids who had nothing.

Listening to her choked voice, I looked up at the imposing stranger by the door, the corners of my mouth curling in a mocking smile:

The new arrival was a mountain of a man, his presence filling the doorway. His suit was crisp, his shoes shined, eyes cold as flint.

"What, now that everyone close to me is dead, you bring in a teacher? Since force didn’t work, you want to try the soft approach?"

My words landed with a thud, sharp and defiant. The officer’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t break eye contact.

The man’s eyes were deep and unreadable. He pulled out a chair and sat down:

He moved with the calm assurance of someone used to being obeyed, the kind of man who never had to raise his voice to get what he wanted.

"My name is Marcus Reed, Deputy Chief of Criminal Investigations. This case has caused too much of a stir—too heinous. From now on, I’ll be in charge of your interrogation."

His voice was measured, each word landing with the weight of finality. The room seemed to shrink around him, everyone else receding into the background.

So they’d brought in the big guns.

I turned away indifferently, flexing my wrists where the cuffs had rubbed my skin raw:

The skin beneath the metal was raw and red. I twisted my hands, savoring the brief sting, a reminder I was still alive.

"Ms. Carter, can you get up now?"

Ms. Carter stiffened, then stood up with red-rimmed eyes. Marcus Reed’s pen tapped on the table, the sound sharp as a judge’s gavel:

The rhythmic tapping filled the silence, each beat a countdown I couldn’t escape.

"Emily, your grades are outstanding and your school record spotless. Both teachers and classmates speak highly of you."

His words were clinical, detached—a checklist of facts that no longer mattered.

"And your psychological evaluations show nothing abnormal—no signs of antisocial personality disorder. You say you had no motive for the crime? I don’t buy it."

His gaze bored into me, searching for cracks. He was used to people breaking. I wasn’t people, not anymore.

His narrowed eyes were sharp enough to cut.

But since I could wipe out a whole town without blinking, how could I be scared by him?

My lips twitched, daring him to push harder. I’d already walked through hell; what could he do to me now?

"Aren’t you cops all about evidence? If you think I’m lying, show me the proof. Anyway, I’ve said all I need to say. I’m just doing my part for society."

I spat the words like poison, arms crossed tight over my chest.

"Emily, you were perfectly fine at school. Why—"

"Enough!"

I snapped, abruptly cutting Ms. Carter off.

My voice was sharp, brittle. I glared at her, every muscle tense.

"No need for you to plead for me here. Get out!"

She flinched at my bloodshot glare, biting her lip for a long time before leaving in tears at Marcus Reed’s nod.

Her shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she hurried out. I felt a twist in my stomach, but forced it down. No weakness.

Watching her retreating back, my emotions gradually settled.

I drew in a slow breath, forcing my heartbeat to slow. The urge to scream faded into a dull ache.

When I looked up, I found Marcus Reed staring at me, unblinking, as if trying to read every flicker of my expression:

He was relentless, stone-faced, refusing to give an inch. The air between us sizzled with silent challenge.

"A good student with no criminal record, with excellent performance, suddenly commits a massacre."

He spoke as he pulled several sheets from his folder—sketches of me from different angles during the old detective’s interrogation.

He spread them out in front of me, each drawing capturing some sliver of guilt or indifference.

"I have to admit, your psychological fortitude and anti-interrogation skills are far beyond your age."

He sounded almost impressed, like a coach sizing up a rival team’s star player.

"But subconscious micro-expressions can’t be faked."

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing even further. His tone dropped, dangerous and low.

"Emily, you’re lying."

The certainty in his tone, the confidence in his eyes—he seemed to see straight through me.

For a second, I felt naked under that gaze, my bravado peeling away. I looked down, refusing to let him see the tremor in my hands.

But I just found it laughable.

I snorted, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. It echoed, empty and hollow, in the sterile room.

"Officer, with people as arrogant as you in charge, is the state really that short-staffed?"

I let my words bite, refusing to let him have the upper hand. His mouth barely twitched.

Marcus Reed didn’t rise to my sarcasm. Instead, he pressed on:

He simply waited, patience carved from granite.

"Am I wrong?"

"Fine, you guessed right."

The new note-taker clearly hadn’t expected me to admit it so easily and was momentarily stunned.

His pen stilled, eyes widening. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.

I glanced at the clock, then at Marcus Reed:

The red second hand ticked away the last moments of my old life. I stared at it, searching for meaning.

"You’re the one in charge here. If you agree to one condition, I’ll tell you the truth."

My voice was even, steady. I locked eyes with him, unblinking.

"A murderer like you dares to make demands? You’re out of your mind! Deputy Chief Reed, who knows what trick she’s up to. Don’t agree!"

The note-taker hissed, practically vibrating with outrage. I ignored him.

Marcus Reed just raised an eyebrow and ignored the angry note-taker.

His silence was answer enough. He was weighing me like a puzzle piece, deciding where I fit.

After a moment’s thought, he looked at me:

He nodded, just once.

"Say it. If you want a lighter sentence, forget it. That’s impossible."

His voice was flat, final. The window behind him reflected my face, pale and set.

I smiled.

If I was afraid of dying, I wouldn’t have done any of this.

My grin was cold, brittle. The kind you wear to funerals, not celebrations.

"I don’t want a lighter sentence. I just want to go outside."

I could feel the shock ripple through the room, silent and immediate. For the first time, Marcus Reed’s composure slipped, just a fraction.

I told Marcus Reed I wanted to see the tallest building in Toledo.

The room buzzed with arguments, radios squawking in the hall. Someone brought me a jacket—mine, still spattered with blood. For a second, I almost felt alive again.

They debated for two hours before finally agreeing.

Even though I was handcuffed, for a brief moment I was free.

The cuffs were tight, but the air outside was sharp and cold, stinging my lungs. The sky was overcast, clouds hanging low over the city skyline.

But as soon as I left the police station, something happened that no one expected.

The courthouse steps swarmed with people, news vans jostling for space, microphones raised like weapons. A wall of sound crashed over me—shouts, jeers, a storm of anger that made my skin crawl.

A crowd had gathered outside, seething with rage. The moment they saw me, they looked ready to tear me apart.

Old men waved canes, mothers clutched their kids tighter, teenagers filmed on their phones, eyes blazing with hate. The whole city, it seemed, had come to judge me.

"Everyone, look! That ungrateful wretch is out!"

A single shout set off a wave of fury.

A woman near the front hurled the first egg, the yolk bursting across my shoulder. The dam broke; suddenly, it was a free-for-all.

People pulled out whatever they had—eggs, rotten vegetables, trash—and hurled it at me.

It rained garbage: bruised apples, greasy fast food wrappers, even a handful of gravel that stung my cheek. The smell was overwhelming, the humiliation total.

Even with police keeping order, I was soon pelted all over, covered in stinking eggs and spoiled food.

Officers formed a shaky shield around me, but the projectiles kept coming. The world shrank to a tunnel of noise, pain, and shame. In the chaos, I caught sight of Mason’s grandma in the crowd, her face pale and trembling, her eyes wide with a hurt that cut deeper than any thrown stone. For a moment, I remembered sitting at her kitchen table, sneaking bites of her peach cobbler as she patted my hand and told me I’d make Maple Heights proud. Now, that memory felt like a cruel joke.

"You monster, you dare show your face? Smash her to death!"

A woman shrieked, her voice cracking. Someone nearby sobbed openly, their grief twisting into hatred.

"Officer, don’t let her go! Shooting her would be too good for her—she should be drawn and quartered, her corpse paraded through the streets!"

Another voice, deeper, echoed through the crowd, their words dripping with venom. Somewhere, a baby wailed, the chaos scarring even the innocent.

"See? Your crime has already caused a social uproar. Thousands want you dead. And you still want to go out?"

Marcus Reed’s voice was tight, strained. He looked at me with something between pity and disbelief, shielding his face from flying debris.

I calmly wiped the egg off my face and replied to Marcus Reed:

I dragged my sleeve across my cheek, the slimy residue smearing into my hairline. My voice was steady, emotionless.

"I still want to go."

He frowned, as if unable to understand my insistence.

I held his gaze, daring him to challenge me. If this was freedom, I’d take every second of it.

"Make way!"

Someone shouted, and the crowd parted.

A hush fell, thick and expectant. I braced myself, senses buzzing.

Before I could react, someone doused me with some foul liquid.

A bucket’s worth of filth sloshed over my shoulders, seeping into my clothes and down my spine. The world recoiled in collective disgust.

The stench of urine and filth spread instantly.

People gagged, some covering their noses. The smell hit harder than any punch.

The culprit was a boy of seventeen or eighteen, holding a filthy bucket, his eyes fierce:

His letterman jacket was stained, his hands shaking as he held the empty pail. His face twisted in satisfaction, like a vigilante in some backyard drama.

"People like you pollute the air just by breathing. Let me give you a good wash!"

He spat the words, loud enough for every camera to catch. The crowd leaned in, feeding on the spectacle.

The crowd was silent for a moment, then erupted into applause and cheers.

For a second, it was like Friday night at the football field, everyone united in the thrill of the moment. Only this time, I was the enemy.

The boy basked in their praise, looking more and more triumphant—like he’d just scored the winning touchdown at Homecoming.

He puffed up, shoulders back, grinning wide. I almost laughed at the absurdity.

And I, covered in eggs, rotten food, and God-knows-what, reeked so badly I no longer seemed human.

My skin crawled, my eyes burned, my dignity gone. Even the handcuffs felt cleaner than I did.

Looking at his smug face, I suddenly lost all interest in going out.

A hollow emptiness replaced the anger. My boots squelched as I shifted my weight.

"Forget it. Let’s go back."

I glanced at Marcus Reed, who kept his distance, but I caught the flash of confusion in his eyes.

He hesitated, then nodded, his face unreadable. I wondered if he pitied me, or just wanted this to end.

"I just wanted to see what the big city everyone dreams of is like. But after seeing these people, it’s really nothing special."

I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to keep a shred of dignity.

My hands shook as I smoothed down my jacket, refusing to let the tears fall in front of them.

"I’m not interested anymore. Let’s go, Officer Reed."

The words sounded final, heavy as a prison door clanging shut.