The hallway outside the interrogation rooms felt louder than it should have been. Phones rang. Shoes scraped against tile. Officers murmured in low, clipped tones—but none of it registered.
Amber Smith stood still, arms crossed tight against her chest.
Moreno broke the silence first. "Tell me you saw that."
Amber exhaled slowly. "I saw a raven speak."
"Good," Moreno muttered. "Then I'm not losing my mind alone."
They both stared down the hallway where Charlie Hayes had been escorted out minutes earlier. Homeless. A self-admitted drunk. And somehow the most credible witness they had.
"And his timeline?" Amber added. "It doesn't just poke holes in our case—it guts it."
Moreno nodded. "If he's right, she couldn't have been there. Not physically." He hesitated. "And we still don't have a weapon."
Amber looked at her notes. "No blunt object. No blade. No tool that could explain the trauma."
A few feet away, unnoticed, a man leaned casually against the wall near the vending machines. Clipboard tucked under one arm, posture relaxed. Clean-cut. Unassuming. His glasses caught the fluorescent lights as his sharp eyes followed the detectives' every movement.
To anyone else, he was just another officer lingering between shifts.
Inside, he was delighted.
A beautiful mess, he thought. And they haven't even reached the interesting part yet.
Amber began pacing. "We need to verify Charlie's statement. He's homeless. He admitted he was drunk that night." She hesitated, guilt flickering across her face. "I hate saying that, but this is a homicide. We can't afford assumptions."
The man by the vending machine tilted his head slightly, lips twitching.
"Drunks," he murmured lightly, just loud enough to carry, "often notice what sober people overlook."
Moreno paused mid-thought. "What was that?"
Amber frowned. "What?"
Moreno shrugged. "Thought I heard—never mind."
By the time they looked again, the man had already blended into the movement of officers down the hall, his words left hanging in the air like a bad taste.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
They returned to the interrogation room with a different energy. Charlie's statement had forced a pivot. This time, they couldn't afford intimidation or shortcuts.
"Ms. Carter," Amber said evenly as she took her seat, "we've received a new witness statement. Someone places you away from the crime scene at the estimated time of death. Can you confirm where you were that evening?"
Eli tilted her head slightly, expression unreadable.
Moreno leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. "We need a full account. From the moment you left until you were detained. Step by step. No interruptions."
Eli let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "You really think retracing my steps is going to magically fix this?"
Amber held her gaze. "It creates a record. And right now, that record matters."
Eli's eyes flicked briefly toward the mirrored glass. For just a moment, she caught the reflection of something dark perched behind her—a raven's silhouette, still and watchful.
Only she noticed.
Moreno muttered under his breath, "We're going to have to rebuild the entire timeline. Evidence, witness credibility—everything."
Amber nodded. "And until we know more, we don't assume guilt. Not anymore."
Eli leaned back, fingers lacing together on the table. She looked calm—almost serene—but her thoughts churned violently beneath the surface.
"I was with Peter," she said quietly. "Not in his house. In one of the Nue alleys."
Amber and Moreno exchanged a glance.
"What do you mean?" Amber asked.
"I mean exactly that," Eli continued. "At the time you think he was dying, I was with him. Just not where you found the body." Her eyes sharpened. "I assume that's what the homeless man told you."
Moreno nodded slowly. "Charlie Hayes said you were together."
So that was his name. Eli thought to herself. Maybe that twenty dollars did some good.
"So how," Amber asked carefully, "do you explain him being dead at the same time you claim you were with him?"
Eli's jaw tightened. A flicker of anger flashed through her eyes.
"It's the work of the devil."
Moreno blinked. He hadn't expected that—not from someone who otherwise sounded lucid, grounded. Still, nothing about this case felt natural anymore.
He stood. "Amber, get someone on alley surveillance. Traffic cams, private cameras, everything in Nue. No gaps."
"On it," Amber said immediately.
Moreno turned back to Eli. "For now, we're moving you to a holding cell."
Eli didn't respond.
He stepped forward, securing the cuffs himself. Two officers escorted her out. Her composure never cracked—not once.
As they passed the vending machines, Eli's gaze snapped to the side.
The man with the clipboard stood there again, adjusting his glasses. He smiled at her—slow, knowing, amused.
Recognition hit her instantly.
Without thinking, Eli lunged toward him.
"Hey!" one of the officers shouted, grabbing her arm as Moreno instinctively drew his gun.
"Ms. Carter!" Moreno barked. "Settle down!"
But Eli never took her eyes off the man.
And Lucifer smiled wider.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The holding cell door closed with a dull, final clang.
Eli barely reacted.
The room was small and sterile, concrete walls leeching the warmth from the air. Night had settled in quietly, the station dimmer now—lit only by fluorescent strips and the soft rustle of paperwork somewhere beyond the bars. Footsteps passed occasionally. Voices murmured, distant and indistinct.
For the first time in two nights, she was alone.
Eli sat still for a long moment, hands resting limply in her lap. Then she closed her eyes.
Her breath hitched.
A single tear slipped free, trailing down her cheek and dropping to the cold floor.
"I'm sorry, Peter," she whispered.
The words broke something open.
Her shoulders trembled, at first barely noticeable—then harder, sharper. She folded inward, arms wrapping around herself as the grief finally surged unchecked. A sob tore out of her chest, raw and violent, followed by another, until she was shaking so badly she could barely breathe.
"I'm sorry," she choked. "I'm so sorry, my love."
Her cries echoed softly against concrete, loud enough to reach the guard stationed down the hall. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair but said nothing.
Across the corridor, Detective Amber Smith stood near, watching silently.
She hadn't expected this.
Eli Carter—cold, composed, unsettlingly calm just hours earlier—was now crumpled on the floor of her cell, grief pouring out of her in uncontrollable waves. There was nothing theatrical about it. No performance. Just devastation.
"There you go," Amber murmured under her breath.
For the first time since meeting her, Eli felt… human.
"I'm sorry," Eli kept repeating between sobs. "I should've protected you. I should've—"
Her voice dissolved into broken gasps as she curled tighter, crying until exhaustion dragged her deeper into herself. The night stretched on, and still she wept—quietly now, hollow and spent.
Amber didn't leave.
She listened to every sob. Every whispered apology.
And somewhere between the echoes of grief and the memory of a raven speaking in a witness room, something inside Amber shifted.
She didn't know what had killed Peter.
But standing there in the dim hallway, listening to the woman everyone said was a monster fall apart over the man she loved—
Amber was no longer convinced Eli Carter was the murderer.