Clearly, you were in some deep shit. There was no denying that now that you’re sitting in one of those interrogation rooms. They really are as empty as those YouTube true crime videos make them look. There was no one in here with you, they just led you to a room and told you to sit. As you twiddle your thumbs, you make a mental note to never say ‘sure’ if a cop comes up to you after your shift and asks if you have a minute to answer some questions for him. Since you work in a shopping center where there just so happens to be a police station around the corner, you thought that the questions would take about fifteen minutes and probably about the group of people that keep stealing from local retail stores. The clock on the wall- which you’re just assuming is right because your phone is dead- says that you have been here for about forty-five minutes, and no one has come to talk to you yet. Yeah, you probably should’ve asked some questions.

The cop that brought you into the station enters the room quietly, with papers in one of those yellow envelopes. You immediately straighten your back and point your toes in your sneakers. You were tired, and had planned to get some food after work, so you were hoping that he would let you go soon enough. There was nothing about the older man’s face indicating that he would. You found it very concerning that he grabbed the chair and sat across from you, his face unchanging. It seems that he is also searching for a certain emotion in yours as well. That worries you.

“How many siblings do you have?” the man asks simply. You blink twice, confused.

“Um, three, they’re all younger than me and I have custody of them. Did something happen?” The officer raises his eyebrows, but everything else in his face remains unchanged.

“Oh, so you do have custody of them. I know your mother passed, where’s your father?” The question stings your tear ducts, you wince instead. You explain to the stone-faced officer how you ended up with custody of my siblings and ended up with a protective order against your father.

Usually, whenever you must recount the events that led to this, even in vague detail, You’re met with a look that you cannot stand. Pity.

The officer only raises one eyebrow.

“Are you aware that your father was in this town? Has been for a month.”

“N-no. I had no idea.” The officer echoes your last two words under his breath. Your stomach knots.

“Are you aware that your father was shot in the head in Goldie’s Park at close range?”

“No?”

“Are you aware that he was on the phone when he was shot? And his last words were the name of his killer?”

“N-No! Whose name did he say?!”

“Are you aware that you are the prime suspect in the murder of your father?”

“H-how could I be? I was at- “

The officer readjusts in his seat, and now you can taste his words. Decaff. This was going to be something fucked up.

“Now, I want you to tell me something, and it would do you well not to lie. Where on God’s green Earth did you hide his body?”