—Ace—
I was sick of the smell of police stations.
Even when they weren't holding you, even when you weren't in a cell, the air carried that same staleness—paper, sweat, coffee, and suspicion.
I sat across from the two detectives, back straight, jaw tight. Callen was beside me, his tablet open, already three steps ahead of everyone else.
"This is the third time we've been in here this month," I said, my voice low, calm, the way it always was when I wanted to punch something but couldn't. "How much longer are we going to keep repeating ourselves?"
Detective Mills didn't flinch. He was older, late fifties, with a face carved by years of catching liars. "Until we get the full picture, Mr. Milan. And right now, the picture still looks… murky."
