Only, I’m not here as a suspect. I’m here to help. They need answers.

And I need closure.

The door creaks open, and the detective walks in. His steps are measured to show he’s not rushing, that he has authority over the situation. Tall, broad, with a quiet intensity behind his eyes… he’s a professional who’s done this a hundred times.

“Dr. Geneva Andrews,” he says, voice low and steady, sitting across from me with a folder in hand. His eyes dart toward my cheek, and there’s the briefest pause on the fading bruise. He’s already drawing conclusions.

I tilt my head, widening my eyes a little. It’s to show a bit of vulnerability, a flash of discomfort. Although, I don’t have to fake it.

“I’m Detective Brooks. I understand you were involved with Mason Rivers.” He leans forward, clasping his hands on the table between us. A dominant stance.

I meet his gaze. “That’s correct.”

“How long did your relationship last?” he asks.

“A little under a year.”

“And how did it end?”

“I broke it off two weeks ago,” I say evenly. “We both knew it wasn’t working.”

“Not working how?”

I lean forward, matching his posture. A calculated move. Mirroring builds rapport. “There were issues.” I pause, then add, “He had a temper.”

Brooks narrows his eyes. “Did things ever get physical between you?”

I give him a small nod, and angle my head so he can see the fading bruise more clearly, showing I have nothing to hide. “Yes. He hit me the night I broke it off.”

The detective taps his fingers. “What did you do after that?”

“I didn’t want to escalate things, so I didn’t retaliate.” Although if Mason had come at me again, I would’ve beat the fuck out of him.

“When was the last time you saw Mason?”

“The night I broke up with him,” I say, meeting his gaze squarely. “I never contacted him after that.”

The detective opens the file in front of him, scanning the pages. When he lifts his head and his focus lands on me, his eyes are cold. I stiffen at the abrupt shift in his demeanor.

“Where were you last night, Dr. Andrews?”

He’s pushing now, no longer pretending to be curious. This isn’t an interview anymore.

It’s an interrogation.

I lift a brow. “Am I a suspect?”

“You’re not under arrest. We’re simply asking all of his close associates their whereabouts so we can build a full picture.”

A rehearsed line. Noncommittal. Legally safe.

He doesn’t answer the question—just redirects it into something procedural. The detective suspects me of the murder, but has insufficient evidence to establish probable cause for arrest.

Or I’d be in handcuffs right now.

“I was at the gym,” I say.

“Late at night? Alone?”

“I go to a 24-hour gym. It helps me clear my mind.” I keep my eyes on his, watching the way his jaw tightens when my voice doesn’t falter. “There are cameras. They’ll show I was there.”

He nods slowly, scribbling something down. “We’ll check that. But tell me, Dr. Andrews—did you ever feel the need to hurt Mason? After he hit you?”

“No,” I say, my voice steady. “I didn’t want revenge. I wanted to move on.”

Detective Brooks leans forward. “So, you’re telling me Mason hit you, hard enough to leave a bruise that’s lasted several days, and you never thought about hurting him back? Not once?”

“No. I just wanted out.”

Brooks scoffs and throws up his hands. “You expect me to believe this shit? The man was violent toward you, and you’re saying you felt nothing? No anger? No resentment? Come on, Dr. Andrews, you’re a psychologist. You know better than anyone that’s not how it works.”

I don’t blink. “I understand human behavior. I also know how to control my emotions.”

He slams the file shut with a snap, and for the first time, irritation leaks through a crack in his professionalism. “Bullshit.”

I brace myself.

“Bullshit,” he repeats, his voice louder now, more intense. “You expect me to believe you just walked away from a guy who hit you, humiliated you, made you feel like nothing, and not once did you think about getting even?”

I meet his gaze, not allowing myself to flinch. “I didn’t kill him.”

Detective Brooks smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “You didn’t kill him? Really? Because it sure as hell looks like you did.”

Before I can respond, he reaches into the file and pulls out a stack of photographs, slamming them down on the table in front of me, one after the other. The impact makes me jump, and I glance down at the images, my stomach twisting.

Mason’s body. Broken. Bloody. And Carved.

Actions have consequences.

The words are deep gouges across his chest. A message. For me.

My breath lodges in my throat, and I force myself not to look away, not to react. I’ve seen pictures like these before, but never of someone I knew. Never of someone who had been a part of my life.

Detective Brooks watches me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “Do you recognize that phrase?” he asks. When I shake my head, he curls his hands into fists. “‘Actions have consequences.’ You’re telling me that vengeful statement is mere coincidence?”

I swallow, forcing my gaze away from the gruesome images, the horror etched into each one. My voice, when it comes, is steady but strained. “I understand why you think I killed Mason, but I’m telling you that I’m innocent.”

“Look at him again!” Brooks jabs his index finger on one of the photographs, his voice harsh. “Look at what was done to him. Then tell me again that you didn’t think about getting revenge.”

I swallow hard, my pulse racing, but I manage to keep my face void of any emotion except shock. “I didn’t.”

He leans in closer, his eyes locked on mine, studying every flicker of emotion, every microexpression. “Well, whoever did this, took their time. They enjoyed it, Dr. Andrews. This wasn’t just about murder. This was personal.”

I fist my hands in my lap, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I force myself to breathe, to stay calm. “I agree with you, but I didn’t kill him.”

Brooks slams another photo down, this one worse than all the others. It’s a close-up of Mason’s face. His eyes are wide, frozen in a twisted mask of sheer horror, pupils blown with the fear he couldn’t escape. His mouth has been forced open, and a candle, half-burned, is lodged between his lips, wax smeared grotesquely across his chin. The wick is charred, blackening the edges of his mouth, indicating excruciating pain.

“Since this is your specialty, Doctor, do you care to explain why Mason has a candle in his mouth? Or why it was lit?”

I stare at the image, bile rising in my throat. Then I cover my mouth with my hand and briefly close my eyes, pulling in breath after breath until I’m certain I’m not going to vomit. Detective Brooks grins with a victory that’ll be short-lived. My reaction is not going to send me to jail, but I’ll be a prisoner of this image for the rest of my life.

Ghost. This has to be his handiwork. But how do I explain that to the detective without sounding crazy? How do I convince him that this isn’t my revenge when that’s what it looks like?

I take a slow, steadying breath, forcing my focus onto the details, letting the clinical detachment I’ve honed over the years take over. I look down at the image of Mason, the grotesque candle wedged in his mouth, and the carvings on his chest, and begin to analyze everything. When I speak my voice is that of a professional.

Geneva, the ex-girlfriend, has been replaced by Dr. Andrews, the expert.

“The candle is symbolic. By forcing it into Mason’s mouth, they wanted to deny him a voice in his last moments. However, the candle is small enough to allow his muffled screams to be heard by the killer, for him or her to enjoy them. And lighting the candle…”