Aubrey, Vince, and Zane sat behind the one-way glass, watching the girl color at the table inside the light-blue interrogation room. But the light overhead hummed too bright, and the red camera eye in the corner blinked steadily. No matter how many crayons were scattered across the table, the room wasn’t built for comfort

  Zane cleared his throat. “Man… not too long. We’re not gonna get much from her. It’s not worth breaking her down.”

  Aubrey fiddled with the ring, reddening the indentation from earlier.

  “We already have most of the details,” Zane added, softer. “Just—don’t pry, Brooke. Okay?”

  “She’s a victim, not a flower,” Aubrey replied flatly, standing. She squared her shoulders and walked inside.

  The room is painted with soft colors, the table cluttered with crayons. The girl stiffened when the door shut, her legs swung nervously.

  “Hey,” Aubrey said, voice warm, slow. “I’m Aubrey. But you can call me Brooke if you like. What’s your name?”

  The girl hesitated, clutching her crayon tighter.

  “That’s a nice drawing,” Aubrey continued, nodding at the paper. “I used to draw a lot when I was your age.”

  The girl didn’t answer, still kicked her feet.

  “Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?”

  Finally, a small voice: “If your name is Aubrey… why does your badge say Brooke?”

  Aubrey smiled gently. “That’s my middle name. Some people use it instead. You can too.”

  She pressed the crayon so hard it snapped, half of it rolling off the table. Her legs kicked faster, then slowed when she noticed Aubrey watching.

  “My name’s Mia.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m tired. When can I go home?”

  Aubrey paused. “Mia’s a pretty name. And before you leave, can we talk a little? Just you and me?”

  Mia shifted, then managed a shy grin. “Brooke’s a pretty name too. Do you… want to switch names?”

  Aubrey chuckled lightly. “Alright. How about I call you Brooke, and you call me Mia? Sound fair?”

  Mia laughed, and covered her face with her hands.

  Aubrey let it sit, then leaned forward. “Brooke… do you know what happened earlier today?”

  Mia’s shoulders tensed. “…Not really. I heard Daddy yelling at Mommy. So I went to my safe spot. Like I always do.”

  “Your safe spot?” Aubrey asked, pen still. “That closet?”

  Aubrey’s thumb pressed harder against her ring. Her own safe spot had been a closet, too, once. The memory scraped at the edges of her thoughts, and she forced her pen steady on the page.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Mia nodded. “Closet. With the shoes. It smells bad in there. But it’s mine.”

  “Was it a quiet voice, or loud?” Aubrey asked.

  Mia twisted the crayon paper around her finger. “Mean voice. And loud. Like he was mad, Can I have a blue crayon?”

  Aubrey leaned in, pen hovering. “Mia… when you heard that other man—did it sound like he was telling your dad what to do?”

  Mia shrugged, and fiddled with a crayon wrapper. “Can I have another juice? The red one, not orange.” Her voice was small, like she was testing if she could change the subject. Then her hands folded tight. “I heard things. Loud…Then a pop sound. It hurt my ears.

  Aubrey’s eyes flicked to the table — no juice box in sight.

  “You heard two pops?” Aubrey pressed.

  Mia nodded faintly. “…The second one came after.”

  Her hands folded over themselves. “Mia? Did you find my rabbit?”

  Aubrey flashed back—blood-matted fur, stuffed ears tossed in a corner. She forces a smile. “I saw him. He’s not feeling well, so he has to rest for a while. Okay?”

  Mia’s face fell. “…Oh.”

  Aubrey quickly lifted a book from her side. “But I did find this.” She placed The Boy Who Cried Wolf on the table.

  Mia’s eyes brightened. She grabbed it, hugging it tight. “Daddy read this to me. It’s my favorite.”

  Aubrey’s pen tip scratched the paper wrong. She realized her hand was trembling and stilled it with effort.

  “What’s your favorite part?” Aubrey asked gently, combing the hair behind her ear.

  Mia’s gaze drifted, voice softening as though she’s not in the room anymore. “I was always scared of the monsters. Daddy said the wolf would eat the other wolves. So the boy wasn’t bad… he was trying his best.”

  Aubrey froze, pen hovering.

  ?

  Mia’s words seemed to echo past the glass, bleeding into another night, another alley.

  “Daddy said the sheep didn’t get eaten… because one wolf hunted the others.”

  Gabriel barreled into an alley, shoving a man forward. The woman in his grasp tumbled free, scrambling, tripping, then ran into the night.

  Gabriel threw the man against brick. The crack of bone rang out. Gabriel’s fists follow—wild, relentless.

  Mia’s voice, bright, cut through:

  “So it wasn’t bad the boy lied. He was trying his best.”

  The man’s face smeared red against the wall. Gabriel’s fists thud, dull and wet. His tears spill unchecked. Every blow lands heavier, emptier.

  Mia’s voice, softer now:

  “Wolves are scary… but sometimes… they scare each other.”

  The man’s body slumped lifeless. Gabriel kneels above, shoulders heaving, knuckles raw, staring through the corpse like it isn’t even there.

  Mia’s words bled back into the room, still echoing in Aubrey’s head as though the girl had spoken them twice.

  Aubrey straightened in her chair, the girl’s words sinking like a needle under her skin. Wolves hunting wolves. It stirred something she doesn’t understand, but can’t ignore.

  “That’s beautiful, Brooke. Thanks for sharing that with me,” Aubrey said softly, rising from her seat. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  She left the room quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Kid’s tougher than she should have to be,” Vince muttered, almost to himself. “Poor kid,” he whispered to himself.

  Aubrey didn’t answer right away. She stared through the one-way glass, watching the child swing her legs, clutching the book. Her thumb pressed into the ring on her hand, carving another red groove.

  Vince glanced at Aubrey’s hands.

  “Something’s wrong,” Aubrey murmured. “Two victims, two shots, two casings. And she heard another voice. If her father really turned on her mother…” Her voice tightened. “It wasn’t his choice.”

  Zane steps forward, tapping the folder on the ledge. “Or it adds up too well—two casings, two shots, messy scene. You’ve seen junkie killings—they don’t bag their dope, they don’t plan their exits. It’s ugly, and this is ugly.”

  Vince, quieter, studies her. “Maybe not. I’ve seen you stitch patterns together that didn’t look like much at first. If you think someone forced the father’s hand… maybe you’re onto something.”

  Zane leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Her dad sounds like a real charmer. Thank god mine never read me bedtime stories.” He smirks, trying to cut the tension.

  Aubrey doesn’t even look at him. She’s staring at her notes, her thumb grinding the ring into her skin so deeply it’s leaving a mark. Her voice, when it comes, is steady but clipped.

  “This wasn’t junkies. Wasn’t random.” She lifts her eyes, sharp enough to slice through the silence. “Somebody forced his hand. It’s not adding up.”

  Zane exhales, jaw tight. “Fine. Then let’s prove it. I’ll run the casings against the DB. If we get different calibers, you might have a case. If not? Don’t hang this whole thing on an eight-year-old’s memory.”

  The words hang heavy, her tone precise, surgical. Vince shifts, uneasy, while Zane looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t.

  Aubrey pressed the ring harder, almost trembling, then exhales like she’s forcing the air out just to keep control. “Lab’s not gonna change the fact she heard another man in that room.”

  For a beat, the three detectives just stand there, the hum of the one-way glass between them.

  In the glass, Mia’s reflection overlapped with Aubrey’s own; the two of them blurred into one. Aubrey pressed the ring so hard the welt looked like a wound. For a second, she couldn’t tell if she was staring at Mia’s outline or her own past staring back.

  She turns and walks out of the room, the echo of her footsteps the only sound that follows.

  Vince watched her go, lips pressed tight, the words he wanted to say swallowed back. Zane crossed his arms, eyes narrowing at the glass, but said nothing. The silence stretched, heavier for all three of them.