The hum of a flickering ceiling light broke the silence in the interrogation room.
Cold. Sterile. It was a space that swallowed warmth, a room built for confessions and secrets.
Detective Diego sat opposite her, elbows pressed on the metal table, voice steady and calm.
"State your full name for the record."
Isabel swallowed. Her throat ached, dry from hours of waiting. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling in her lap.
"Isabel Clinton."
He studied her, not like a suspect, not even like a victim. He studied her the way someone studies cracks in a wall that's ready to split apart.
Her eyes were swollen from nights with no sleep. Her fingers wouldn't stop twitching against the frayed hem of her sweater.
"You were the one who reported Eve Clinton missing two weeks ago?"
She nodded, almost a whisper leaving her mouth.
"Yes."
"And Eve is your…?"
"My younger sister."
Diego leaned back. A chair creaked. "Tell me, Isabel. When was the last time you saw her?"
Her lips parted. Nothing came. Only the faint sound of rain crawling down the windows outside the precinct. She shut her eyes, pulled in one breath. Let it out slow.
"That morning," she murmured. "Saturday. Two weeks ago."
Diego nodded once, waiting.
"She said she was heading to the library. It was around nine. I was home. Couldn't go to work. Fever, headache, just wanted to rest."
Her voice cracked. She pressed her fists together, tighter.
"Eve always went to the library on weekends. She said the silence there helped her. She was smarter than me… always was."
Diego let her talk. Didn't break in. His eyes fixed on her face.
"By noon I felt better. Didn't want to call off another shift. We barely had food, bills were eating us alive. So I went in, worked the afternoon."
Her tears burned, but she kept blinking them back.
"I closed the convenience store alone. Eight o'clock. It was raining. I had to walk back."
"And when you got home?"
"She wasn't there," Isabel whispered.
The words dropped heavy between them.
"I called her. Once, twice. It rang once then died. I thought maybe she was out. I waited. An hour, then another. By midnight I… I called the police."
Diego scribbled notes, the pen scratching.
"Did she have anyone close? Boyfriend? Friends?"
Isabel shook her head. "Not that I knew. She kept to herself. School, books, late-night shows with me."
Her voice broke down to a hush. "We were all we had."
Diego exhaled, low. "I'm sorry for your loss."
She turned her face away. Lips pressed shut hard, trembling anyway.
"We found Eve's body last night," he said, choosing his words like knives. "In a dumpster behind a nightclub on Fremont Street."
The air thinned.
She didn't scream. Didn't move.
She sat still, a hollow shadow of herself. Her eyes, red-rimmed, stared through him, past him, somewhere far away.
Diego's gaze didn't waver. He saw no lies. Only grief, raw and endless.
"We'll need your help," he said. "Every detail matters. Even the small things."
Isabel's chin dipped slowly. "I'll tell you everything. Just… find who did it. Please."
He pulled a photo from the folder, slid it across.
A grainy image. Surveillance footage. A figure in a hoodie trailing a girl. The timestamp matched the night Eve vanished.
"Do you know this person?"
She leaned closer. Her chest seized.
The shoulders. The gait.
Familiar.
"No," she lied.
Diego's brow lifted but he didn't press.
Her gaze fell away, to the cold table surface. A tremor slid down her spine. Because in that shadowy frame, for half a second, she swore she recognized someone.
Her pulse kicked against her ears, thumping chaotic. She wasn't just answering questions—she was being measured. Every silence, every twitch. The room felt smaller by the second.
"You said she left at nine. Did she seem unusual before?"
Isabel shook her head. "Quiet. But that was her. She promised she'd be back by evening. We were supposed to eat ramen. Watch a movie."
Diego scribbled again.
"She never mentioned problems? Teachers, classmates, family?"
"No. But…" Isabel hesitated.
"But?"
"Lately she was distracted. Always checking her phone. Looked… worried. When I asked, she brushed me off."
"Any names? Messages you saw?"
"No names. Once, I heard her arguing with someone on the phone. Late. She said it was a classmate. A project thing."
"Did she say who?"
"No. And I doubt it was anyone from class."
Diego sat back. His instincts stirred. Something missing, something hiding.
Isabel folded her arms across her chest. The chill had grown sharp, bone-deep.
"Can I go?" she asked, voice small.
"Soon," Diego replied. "One more thing. Do you know Lucian Gray?"
Her stomach twisted.
"Yes. He's my friend. Works at a garage. We've known each other forever."
"How well did he know Eve?"
"They talked. She liked him. Trusted him. Maybe even more than me."
"You think he could've been involved?"
She shook her head hard. "No. Lucian wouldn't hurt anyone. Not Eve."
But the hoodie in that photo lingered in her mind. The walk. The outline.
And then his words, only days ago, whispered back.
"You don't always know the people closest to you, Izzy."
Her nails cut into her palms.
Diego stood, collecting papers into a neat pile. "We'll be in touch. If you remember anything—call."
She rose too. Her knees felt thin, barely hers.
The hallway stretched out before her. No relief waited. Only dread, circling closer with every step.
She left the station under a weeping sky. Rain tapped on her shoulders, slid down her face, mixing with the tears she didn't bother hiding anymore.
The city groaned under thunder. Cars hissed past puddles. Lights blurred behind glass.
And Isabel knew, for the first time, the truth wasn't missing.
It was buried.
Buried deep.
And someone was working hard to keep it there.