✍︎ 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞-𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐧 [dark psychopath x FBI romance] | 𝟏𝟖+

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟢𝟣

𝗦𝗬𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗘

I count precisely that this is the fifth time I'm smudging black eyeliner over my heavily painted eyes.

I casually sigh and lower my head.

The man sitting across from me, wearing a dark blue uniform with the sheriff's badge and the name Liam Harris engraved on the card below, clears his throat, folds his hands on the metal table, and tries again, "Sybille, I know it's hard for you, but we need you to describe what happened again, in as much detail as possible."

Even an idiot could tell he was addressing me, and I'm not stupid. Liam waits patiently for an answer, not looking around the room, but I delay.

I don't want to think about it again, rather much talk about it – I've recounted the events so many times that it makes me sick.

I tilt my head back and survey the dimly lit room, barely twenty square meters, with just that cold metal table, two chairs (though I swear there was a third one here last week), and a two-way mirror.

"I don't understand what else you want to know," I mumbled, leaning back in the chair and crossing my arms under my chest.

"We want to know everything – everything that happened on the night of September seventeenth."

I click my tongue and twirl a strand of my black hair around my finger. I twist the split ends between my index, middle finger, and thumb and stare at the ceiling for a while.

Yes, I know it's a bad habit, and one day I'll lose all my hair and be bald – too bad I've never heard it from my family (the ones who should be close and associated with warmth in life), so I don't care what anyone else would say.

"Well. September seventeenth," I begin, as sheriff Liam pulls a portable recorder out of his pocket.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks, carefully sliding it to the middle of the table.

I shake my head and watch as he presses the red button and recites the monotonous protocol phrase, indicating the accuracy of yet another witness statement.