The innocent detective

Prologue

"It wasn't me. You have to believe me."

The desperation in her voice resonated through the people sitting in front of her, her colleagues, her friends. The three adults with identical badges proudly sat on their hips were confined in the interview room, grey paint chipping away, concrete floor, metal furniture as uncomfortable as could be and a one-way mirror. This room was solely meant for criminals, not crime fighting detectives who lived and breathed the law.

Chest rising and falling steadily, eyes inspecting both colleagues patiently, one hand restricted with metals bracelets against the table as the other tapped repeatedly against the metal surface, betraying her calm persona she kept up for so long. The pictures before her showed the obvious but she had no recollection of doing such devious crimes, it wasn't her, it wasn't in her blood.

Her hands were stained red, grime colouring her nails as beads of sweat fell in sync with the rain. Familiar emerald irises accompanied unkept identical strands of frizzy midnight, the sight of that plaid flannel and mud-stained trousers caused her to internally curse. She could only watch with passive eyes as the pictures were piled on top of each other, the evidence overwhelming.

Inhaling deeply, she bit her cherry-coloured lip, eyes dragging up to the mirror where she could only see her exhaustion. The people of this station were the only family she ever knew, deadbeat parents, single child, and selfish carers. She had always been alone and today was no different, everything went against her words and despite everyone's will to fight, her arrest was inevitable.

Letting out a gut-wrenching sob, she rubbed her sternum as if easing a never-ending pain. The empathy oozed off her colleagues who she considered family despite the non-existent biological relation, their eyes gentle as they forced themselves to stay put and not get any more emotionally involved than they already were.

Swallowing all her pride and ego, she relayed her side of the story, repeating her innocence, hand on her heart she wasn't a murderer, and the detectives had every reason to believe her disregarding the blatant evidence showing a woman dragging a limp corpse, the woman an exact carbon copy of the supposed innocent detective.

Interrupting the silence, the door burst open with such fury that it was a miracle it remained firm on its hinges. Standing in the door frame was her partner, hand on his chest as he collected himself as the other was pointing down the hall in accusation. His face was painted in confusion, furrowed brows, lips twitching in a frown as his Adam's apple bobbed, struggling to swallow the words he heard.

"Your sisters' downstairs."