𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 | Tara Carpenter SCREAM VI/VII

•THREE

"Why were you at the store at that time?"

They led me into a room that seems designed to make anyone who steps inside uncomfortable. The air is thick with overlapping smells: cold coffee from the vending machine, left there who knows how long, a faint hint of disinfectant, as if they were trying to cover up something less pleasant. There's also a subtle trace of smoke, as if tobacco had seeped into the walls.

The room is cramped, almost oppressive. The walls are bare, painted in a dull gray that absorbs all the light, making everything appear even more pale. A lamp hangs from the ceiling above the table, swinging slightly and casting a circle of cold light right on my face, making everything unnaturally sharp, while the rest of the room remains wrapped in uncertain shadows. Its continuous hum burrows into my head, and I feel the urge to cover my ears.

In front of me is a metal table, cold and scratched, full of engraved marks as if someone had spent hours venting their frustration on it. Next to the man are some closed files, just inches away from me.

I bite my lip, clenching my jaw in frustration. There's exhaustion in my eyes, along with a touch of irritation. It's the third time he's asked me the same question, and my answer hasn't changed. What does he think, that if he asks me one more time, the facts will alter themselves?

I lower my gaze to my hands, fidgeting with the sleeve of my shirt, as time drags on. How long has it been? Three hours? Maybe four? I've lost track of time, and the chair I'm sitting on is making my back ache. My legs, numb from sitting still, demand movement, and I start tapping my feet lightly on the floor to avoid a cramp.

"Can I have a coffee?" I ask with a tired tone, hoping for a little relief.

He looks exhausted too; I can see it in the fine lines around his eyes, which deepen every time he looks at me with that sharp gaze. He's wearing a slightly wrinkled light blue shirt, and he slowly sips from a white mug with a chip on the side. Occasionally, he sets it down on the table with a dull thud that echoes through the room. That sound, along with the buzzing of the lamp, is the only thing breaking the silence.

"Please," I add, a note of pleading in my voice.

He studies me, weighing my words. His lips thin as he runs a hand through his gray hair, nodding reluctantly. "Alright," he replies with a seemingly calm tone.

I manage a small smile as I see Detective Bailey rise from his chair and head for the door. "I'll be right back," he adds with a distant tone, giving me a look that silently warns me not to try anything foolish as he steps out of the room to get the coffee.

My gaze shifts to the files, and my heart races as I lean forward slightly to try and read something. My fingers reach out towards them, but a sudden noise makes me jump. I look up and see Detective Bailey coming back in, his face tense and his eyes cold. "Those are classified," he says in a chilly tone.

I blush with embarrassment and take the cup of coffee he offers, wrapping my hands around it to feel its warmth. I bring the rim to my lips, closing my eyes as I savor the warmth of the liquid. It might not be the best coffee I've ever had, but at least it keeps me awake.

"Can we continue, miss?" he asks with a hint of sarcasm, his gaze relentless.

"I don't know what else to add," I reply, my voice laced with exasperation.

"Maybe the real reason you were there?" he presses, tilting his chair back.

I take another sip of coffee, trying to stay calm. "I already told you. I was hungry," I reply, staring at him with tired eyes. It's the same answer I've given this whole time, but he keeps looking at me with suspicion.