THE THERAPIST

14

𝐂 𝐡 𝐚 𝐩 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫  𝟏𝟒

     “Why did you run from us?” Detective Spade asked, his voice stern.

     The dingy walls of the interrogation room seemed to close in. A single overhead light gleamed, casting sharp shadows on the compact metal table, with barely enough space to move around the chairs, but somehow all four of them managed to fit inside. Behind the one-way mirror, two men stood, eyes wide open.

     Lucas Cliffs sat across from Detective Spade, scowling. His hairline was bruised, and his dark hair was tousled, with smudges all over. His wrists were cuffed to the tabletop, his fingers trembling from time to time.

     Next to him stood his lawyer, Sarah Scott, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties with sharp eyes behind reading glasses. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. She wore a black pencil skirt, a white blouse, and a tailored jacket.

     “I’m not gonna ask again, Mr. Cliffs. Why did you run from us?”

     Lucas pulled a face to his lawyer and she blinked. With a sigh, he turned to Spade, sinking in the chair. “I-I... I was scared. A couple of days ago, I spoke to the cops about Rosalind’s murder, and then you guys showed up again.” His eyelashes moved rapidly. “I panicked. Ok!”

     “How convenient,” Spade muttered. “When you spoke with the cops, you failed to add that you argued with Rosalind the same day she was killed. Why?”

     Lucas opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Sarah raised a hand. “Don’t answer that,” she said, her tone crisp. She turned her gaze to Spade. “My client’s reasons for arguing with the victim are irrelevant unless you have specific evidence proving he killed her.”

     Spade didn’t miss a beat. “We have every right to ask, Ms. Scott. We’re trying to establish a motive, and your client here...” He faced Lucas. “Has a very good motive to kill the vic.”

     “Again, you’re insinuating,” she said, “you have no physical evidence. If you did, you’d have arrested him already.”

     “We’ve got an eye witness who saw you with Rosalind Danvers the day she died,” Meredith, who had been standing by the door said and moved toward the table, a folder of papers swinging in her hand.

     “All right, Lucas,” she began, her voice calm but firm. “We don’t have enough evidence to prove you killed Rosalind. At least, not yet. We just need to clear a few things up. Let’s start simple.”

     She dragged back a chair and sat down, placing the files on the tabletop. “A witness places you at your house with Rosalind Danvers. We know she stormed out of your house. We know you drove after her. So, help us out—where did you go after you left the house?”

     Lucas shifted in his seat, his eyes flicking to his lawyer. “If you know all this, it means you spoke with Ms. Gillian.”

     Meredith stared at him. “Yeah. We did.”

     “She’s got dementia. She imagines things. You can’t possibly believe what she told you.”

     Meredith sighed and flipped through the folder. She said, “See, Lucas, here’s the problem. We have traffic cam footage from around 6:30 p.m., and your car wasn’t anywhere near your house. We know you haven’t been in your house for a while. We also know you didn’t come home the night Rosalind was murdered. So, where’d you really go?”