Holding Grudges

File III

"Richard. Richard Jones. Hey, Richie, are you still with us?" Detective Thompson's voice cracked through the suffocating silence like a whip. His fingers snapped with sharp precision in front of Jones's face, the sound echoing off the cold, sterile walls of the interrogation room. The harshness of the gesture was meant to drag him from the depths of his dazed stupor, but it only seemed to unsettle the trembling man further.

Jones was a pitiful sight, slumped over on a cold, unforgiving steel-plated desk, his body jerking in involuntary shivers. The handcuffs biting into his wrists were the only thing holding him to the metal bar positioned squarely in the center of the table. His body heat was the only thing keeping him from freezing in the relentless chill that permeated the room, and it wasn't nearly enough.

The biting air wrapped around him like a vice, each breath a struggle as if the very act of breathing was a battle he was losing. His fatigue was evident, dark circles under his eyes, sweat and fear mingling on his brow. He was on the edge of collapse, but still—he couldn't escape. Not here. As the seconds dragged on, the hum of the recording equipment was the only thing that filled the void, capturing every strained breath, every shift of discomfort. The room was alive with tension, thick enough to cut through with a knife.

"Y-yes..." Jones stammered, his voice shaking as his eyes snapped open, struggling to focus. The shock of Detective Thompson's voice had pulled him back, but it wasn't the kind of awakening anyone would want. His heart raced wildly, the sudden jolt of reality crashing into him like a wave.

Detective Thompson leaned in, his presence a force that seemed to loom over the fragile man. His voice dropped, becoming an unsettling mix of cold authority and sharp precision. "Listen, Mr. Jones, the evidence we've carefully compiled speaks for itself. It's undeniable, and it can't be ignored." His words slid out, each syllable weighted with the gravity of truth, each one meant to trap Jones in his own unraveling fate.

Jones recoiled slightly, his throat constricting as his mind scrambled to grasp onto any semblance of control. "A-and w-what exactly does it say?" His voice cracked, pleading. His eyes fluttered, barely able to stay open. The toll of exhaustion, both physical and mental, was taking its hold, but desperation clung to him like a second skin.

Detective Thompson's eyes never left him, his gaze calculating, sharp. "Well..." he continued, his voice low and deliberate, "as you and I both know, the evidence is abundantly clear. You were there. In that house. With Mr. Williams, at the time of his tragic murder."

He leaned closer, watching Jones's face for any flicker of fear, any sign of cracking. "In fact..." he trailed off, his voice becoming a slow, suffocating whisper, "you've still got traces of his blood on you. You can't hide that, Jones." The words hung in the air, heavy and damning.

Jones flinched, the truth of it hitting him like a physical blow, but Thompson wasn't done yet. "But, there's more, isn't there? You're not just a suspect, Richie. You're a victim too. Caught in the middle of something far worse than you seem to realize."

Thompson's eyes searched Jones's face, looking for the crack, the slip—a sign that he was holding something back, that he was hiding more than the bloodstains. Something in Jones's panic-ridden gaze made Thompson press further.The room felt suffocating now, every word a slow, deliberate twist of the knife. Every detail, every second, every breath pushed Jones closer to the truth he couldn't escape. And Detective Thompson knew—just one more crack, one more slip, and the dam would break.

Richard Jones had been trapped in the relentless grip of interrogation for what felt like an eternity—endless hours stretching into a suffocating night, and then bleeding into the pale light of the following day.

His body ached, his mind fogged with exhaustion, and yet the questions kept coming, unyielding, hammering at the fragile walls of his composure. He had been broken down piece by piece, every flicker of hope dashed against the cold, sterile surface of the interrogation room.