Stephanie's POV
The red light of the recorder was the only thing Armstrong could see in the pitch black of the basement. It was a tiny, burning eye. Our piece of flesh wasn't going to be cut from his skin. It was going to be pulled from his soul, word by word.
"Start talking, Armstrong," Cane said again. His voice wasn't loud. It was flat. Final. "The cliff."
Armstrong shook his head, his jaw clenched. He was trying to build his walls again. The silent, tough detective.
I knelt down so I was level with his face. I didn't touch him. "You're not protecting anyone by staying quiet. You're just clinging to the last shred of the story you told yourself. That you're the good guy. The hero. Let's peel that back."
"Go to hell," he whispered.
"We've already been there," Cane said. "You built it for us. Now you get the tour."
