The fluorescent lights of the Twelfth Precinct made everything look harsher, from the scuffed tiles underfoot to the steel gray expressions on the officers' faces.
Jean followed Hannah through the sliding doors, her eyes scanning every desk, every corner, until they landed on him.
Logan sat at a metal table in an interrogation room just beyond the glass wall. His coat was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the fresh redness along his knuckles. A bruise was already blooming along his jaw, but his posture was straight, his gaze steady, locked on the detective opposite him.
He didn't look defeated. He looked dangerous.
A uniformed officer blocked Jean's path. "Ma'am, you can't go in there."
"That's my husband," Jean said, her voice colder than she meant it to be.
The officer's brow lifted slightly. "Even so, he's in the middle of…"
The door to the interrogation room opened, and Detective Harlan stepped out, folding his arms. "You must be his wife, Mrs. Jean Kingsley."
