Kiley is alone, in the police station, she is 19, so her parents weren’t allowed in with her; however, she had shrugged that off. Tear streaks have carved paths through the makeup on her face, leaving her black eyeliner smudged and running, a stark visual of her recent crying. Her white collared school shirt, typically a symbol of order and routine, is marred by blood spatters. Her posture speaks volumes about her emotional state: her shoulders are slumped forward, a classic sign of dejection, defeat, or exhaustion. If you didn’t know any better, you would think she was a victim of recent events.

  Her hands are folded in her lap, a gesture that can indicate a sense of helplessness, at least she thought so. She hoped that together, these details paint a picture of someone who has been through a deeply upsetting and harmful experience and is now left in a state of visible sorrow and possibly shock. Every detail, from the ruined makeup to the stained clothing and the collapsed posture, she calculated, speaks to a person who has endured a significant trauma or emotional blow and is now left in a state of visible brokenness.

  “After all, it was Chloe’s fault that she fell,” Kiley smirked to herself. “She had nothing to do with it. Chloe was the problem, not her.” Of course she told herself this, and not the officer at the scene of the bus acciedent.

  Now she was in, what she could only assume was an interrogation room. She was forced to watch enough cop shows with her dad to see the classic signs. The walls were a tired shade of gray, scuffed at the base where metal chairs had scraped too many times. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, humming just loud enough to crawl under the skin. The room was small, claustrophobic by design, with a single metal table bolted to the floor. Two chairs faced each other across it: one inviting questions, the other demanding answers.

  A one-way mirror took up most of one wall, reflecting a warped version of the room and giving nothing back. Behind it, someone might be watching. Or not. That uncertainty was part of the game. In the far corner, a small camera blinked red, recording everything; something you would have seen from a cop movie in the '90s because it most likely was from the '90s... A single yellow folder lay on the table, something a teacher might keep handouts in, but this place was the farthest from a classroom. The folder screamed a Kiley, even while closed it lay heavy with implication. The air smelled faintly of sweat, old coffee, and cleaning chemicals: sterile but lived-in. Every sound echoed slightly: the creak of leather, the tap of a pen, the sigh of a tired detective.

  Nothing about the room invited comfort. That was the point. What really annoyed her was the single clock that ticked with mechanical precision. Each second carved into the silence like a blade.

  Kiley sat at the cold metal table, legs crossed. She glanced down at her phone again, in her hands on her lap, a thumb twitching toward the screen even though she hadn’t received a notification since they brought her in. Her grip tightened as if the device could anchor her to some version of reality she still controlled.

  The door to the interrogation room swung open, and in stepped the detective. He wasn't the slick, fast-talking kind you saw in the movies, but the classic mold. Kiley thought, perhaps a little world-weary, with a coat that had seen more rainy nights than he cared to remember. She looked down at the man right away; however, she did notice his eyes. They were sharp and she felt like they weren’t missing a thing. Those eyes scanned the sterile, windowless room with its muted colours and harsh, functional lighting.

  He moved with a quiet confidence born of countless hours in similar spaces. He held a faint, enduring scent of stale coffee, sweat, and something else underneath it all. Kiley wanted to judge the man, but she needed to play everything smart.

  Then the detective with a quiet sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred solved (and perhaps a few unsolved) cases, reached the table. He didn't hesitate. Pulling out one of the hard-backed chairs. The chair scraped noisily against the floor; a small, sharp sound in the otherwise still room. He settled into it, the metal a familiar, unwelcoming embrace. His posture was relaxed yet alert, a study in stillness as his gaze remained fixed.

  “Hello…” He paused, looked at the folder and then continued. “Kiley. I am Detective Malloway. I am looking into the accident. I am sorry to hear that you were so close to…” He paused again. He shifted his eyes from the folder to Kiley’s eyes. “So close to your friend at the time of her death.”

  Detective Malloway watched. He nodded once, then held out his hand.

  “Phone.”

  Kiley blinked, lips parting. “I haven’t—”

  The detective's voice, a low, steady tone, cut through the quiet. "Kiley, I'm going to need your phone."

  Kiley's hands, previously folded in her lap, tightened almost imperceptibly. Her gaze flickered down to the device, a lifeline in her unsettling situation. There was a noticeable pause, a hesitation that spoke volumes about her reluctance to relinquish it. She didn't want to let it go; the phone likely held a universe of connections, distractions, or maybe even something she feared they would find.

  But the detective's outstretched hand remained, a silent, unmoving demand. There was no impatience in his posture, just a quiet, unwavering expectation. The space between his hand and the phone seemed to stretch, filled with Kiley's internal debate.

  Finally, with a visible ripple of resignation, she reached out and placed the phone in his waiting palm. His fingers closed around it, the transfer final. Without a word, he produced a clear plastic evidence bag, the kind with the satisfying, official seal. He dropped the phone inside and carefully, deliberately, sealed it shut.

  His gaze then lifted way from Kiley towards the large, dark mirror that dominated one wall of the room. The silent eye of the observation room. It was a subtle acknowledgement, a signal. All the while the clock ticked away in the background. Within moments, the door opened again, and a uniformed officer entered. The detective handed the evidence bag with the phone to the officer, who took it with a brief nod and exited as quietly as he had entered.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Turning back to Kiley, the detective's expression remained neutral, his voice still even. "That's just standard procedure, Kiley," he explained, his words a low rumble in the small room. "Following protocol. You'll get it back before we're done here." The assurance hung in the air, a small promise in a situation that offered little certainty.

  Malloway leaned back slightly, lacing his fingers together. His voice was soft, coaxing. “Why don’t you walk me through what happened that day?”

  Kiley drew a breath. Let it out slowly. “It was an accident,” she said. Her voice didn’t waver. She’d practiced this. “Chloe ran. I didn’t push her.”

  Silence stretched. The clock ticked. Malloway’s gaze didn’t move from her face. “Okay. Let’s take it from the beginning. From when school ended to where Chloe trips and falls infront of the bus.”

  She hesitated, just long enough for him to notice. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “The truth,” he said, but there was no edge to it. Just a steady current of expectation.

  She uncrossed her legs. Crossed them the other way. “We were just talking. That’s all. I mean, she was upset. I tried to calm her down.”

  “Upset about what?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff. Her parents. Her boyfriend. Me. She was always upset about something.”

  Malloway didn’t speak. Just nodded slightly. Inviting her to continue. Kiley stared at the table. Her reflection wobbled faintly on its dull surface, blurred and broken by imperfections in the steel.

  “She said I wasn’t a real friend. That I lied to her. She got all worked up. Started yelling. Then she turned around and started running toward the edge. She—” Kiley’s throat tightened. She swallowed. “She didn’t look where she was going.”

  Malloway’s pen scratched once across the papers in the folder. The only sound besides the clock.

  Kiley leaned forward. “I didn’t push her. I didn’t.”

  Malloway tapped his finger near the edge of his folder. Not accusatory. Just a gesture. “Kiley, there’s no audio on the bus. No cameras. Just your word. And some things Chloe posted that morning.”

  Kiley looked up sharply. “What things?”

  “She tagged you in a story. Said she was going to ‘finally say what needs to be said.’ You know what that was about?”

  “No.” The answer came too fast.

  “You sure?”

  “I didn’t do anything to her. She was... she was dramatic.”

  More silence. The lights buzzed overhead like static in a broken speaker. Kiley looked toward the mirror. For a moment, she imagined Chloe’s face staring back at her. But it was only her own. Pale. Wide-eyed. Cracking.

  “You can’t delete regret,” Malloway said, almost gently. “Even if you never say it out loud.”

  “I’m not regretting anything,” Kiley said. Her voice trembled, betraying her.

  Malloway stood, slowly. “We’ll take a break. Think about how you want to finish this story, Kiley. Because you’re the only one left who can tell it.”

  She didn’t respond. Didn’t look at him as he left the room. The door clicked shut. Kiley sat alone. Just her. And the girl in the mirror.

  Kiley's eyes, red-rimmed and heavy from crying, drifted towards the mirror. For a moment, she seemed to be looking at her reflection, the image of her tear-streaked face and blood-splattered shirt a grim confirmation of her reality. But then, her gaze sharpened, focusing past her sorrowful image, and she saw Chloe.

  It was likely a memory, a phantom conjured in the cold, reflective glass, but in that instant, the dam of Kiley's composure broke internally. A wave of bitter resentment washed over her, hot and suffocating. Chloe. Chloe was the root of it all, the unseen architect of her predicament. Kiley blamed her for everything that had brought her to this sterile, oppressive room.

  Hatred, sharp and acrid, twisted in Kiley's gut. She hated Chloe because she was free. Free from the weight that pressed down on Kiley's chest, free from the consequences that now seemed insurmountable, free from this trap Kiley found herself in. The unfairness of it, the sheer, unbearable freedom that Chloe possessed (or had possessed), fueled a burning, corrosive jealousy.

  In the silence of the interrogation room, a different scene unfolded in Kiley's mind, a raw outburst she couldn't voice aloud. She imagined screaming at the reflection, at the spectral image of Chloe. You're the lucky one! the silent scream echoed in her head. I'm never jealous of you! You stupid whore! I'm happy you're dead! The imagined words were venomous, a desperate, ugly outpouring of pain, blame, and a chilling, perhaps self-destructive, satisfaction. The last thought, a stark declaration of Chloe's death, hung heavy in the mental space, a dark counterpoint to her earlier tears.

  When Detective Malloway returned, he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he moved with deliberate precision, setting a slim folder on the table and flipping open the clasp. Paper slid free; neatly printed reports, each corner lined up with care. No drama. No raised voice.

  Just truth sharpened and ready.

  Kiley shifted in her seat. “Can I have my phone back now?”

  Malloway didn’t answer. He held up the first page.

  “School disciplinary record. Grade ten to twelve.” He flipped it toward her. “Seven complaints. Bullying, verbal harassment, social exclusion. Mostly involving Chloe... and a few other girls.”

  Kiley scoffed. “It was stupid high school drama. Everyone fights. And they always took her side.”

  Another sheet. “Teacher notes. Miss Howard. She describes you as ‘intelligent, persuasive, and often capable of manipulating social dynamics to isolate peers.’” His tone never changed, but the words hit like cold water.

  Kiley leaned back, folding her arms again, propping up her breasts. Her go-to shield. As if they might protect her, here and now. “She hated me.”

  “I don’t think she needed to,” Malloway replied. He gets up, walks out for a moment and returns with a laptop placing it at the edge of the table. He opened it. The screen glowed pale in the fluorescent light. “I’d like you to look at these.”

  The first slide clicked onto the monitor; chat logs pulled from Kiley’s phone, her own words lit up in ugly contrast.

  “Chloe’s such a trainwreck. It’d be better if she just disappeared.”

  “She’s literally a parasite.”

  “Watch her cry again tomorrow lol.”

  Kiley’s face froze. “You don’t know the context,” she said quickly. “It was just... stupid. I was venting. People say things.”

  Click.