What Remains Unsaid

Chapter Four-The Interrogation

The interrogation room was small and bare, lit by a single fluorescent light that buzzed faintly above the table. The rain had started again, whispering against the windows. I preferred it that way, rain softened the edges of sound, made confessions feel inevitable.

Marcus sat across from me, shoulders slumped, fingers laced together. His clothes were rumpled, eyes red from lack of sleep. He looked less like a killer and more like a man already broken by the weight of his own thoughts.

Lee stood near the door, quiet, pen ready. She didn’t speak, but I could feel her eyes on both of us, watching, judging.

I opened the file in front of me, spreading the photographs across the table. Lydia’s body. The rug. The blood. The torn fabric. I let the images rest between us like an open wound.

“Marcus,” I began, my tone measured. “We’ve gone over this before, but I need you to walk me through the night of the murder again. Every detail.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I already told you, I left for Glenmere around eight. Lydia stayed home. We’d argued earlier, but....”

“What about?” I interrupted gently.

He hesitated. “Just… small things. She was unhappy. She said I didn’t understand her anymore.”

“Did she mention ending things?”

His silence was answer enough.

I slid a sheet of paper toward him, the printed text message we’d found.

‘We can’t keep pretending, Marcus. If you don’t tell him, I will.’

He stared at it, eyes narrowing. “That… that’s not what it looks like.”

“Then what is it?” I asked.

“She wanted to tell you something,” he said suddenly, looking up at me. “About us. About what happened years ago.”

I kept my face neutral. “And you didn’t want her to?”

“No! It wasn’t like that. I told her to wait,  that it wasn’t the right time. But she thought I was lying, that I’d never tell you.”

His voice cracked slightly, and the words trembled in the space between us.

“So she threatened to tell me herself,” I said quietly. “And then she ends up dead that same night.”

Marcus leaned back, shaking his head. “You’re twisting this.”

“Am I?” I pushed a photograph toward him — the torn fabric found beneath the rug. “This piece of cloth was recovered from the scene. Your fingerprints are on it.”

“That’s impossible,” he whispered. “I don’t even own that jacket anymore.”

“Maybe not,” I said softly. “But it was yours once. Fibers matched clothing you wore when you and Lydia first moved here. The jacket you left in your old shed.”

He froze. His eyes darted between me and the photo like a trapped animal searching for a way out.

“You think I planned this?” he asked hoarsely. “You think I’d hurt her?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that you were angry. You thought she was about to destroy your life, your reputation. You panicked.”

He slammed his hands on the table. “No! I loved her!”

The sound echoed off the walls, startling Lee slightly. I didn’t move. I let the silence stretch long enough for his outburst to feel like guilt.

Finally, I spoke again, quiet, deliberate. “Love doesn’t erase evidence, Marcus. It leaves fingerprints like everything else.”

His voice fell to a whisper. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” I said, leaning forward. “Help me understand.”

But he didn’t. He just stared at the photographs, trembling, his reflection in the glossy surface fractured and small.

After nearly two hours, I stepped out of the room, leaving Lee with him. She found me a few minutes later in the hallway.

“You pushed him hard,” she said.

“He’s lying,” I replied.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, “but that doesn’t mean he’s guilty. He’s scared. There’s a difference.”

I met her gaze. “You think I don’t know the difference?”

Her silence lingered long enough to answer for her.

“Look at the evidence,” I continued. “His fingerprints, the message, the motive. Everything lines up.”

“Too neatly,” she murmured.

That caught me off guard for half a second, but I covered it with a faint smile. “Sometimes the truth is simple.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “But not often.”

When Marcus was escorted back to holding, I went to my office. The rain outside had turned heavier, beating softly against the window. The air smelled of wet soil and old wood.

I sat down, opened my notebook, and began writing my report. Every word felt measured, practiced, the story fitting perfectly into place.

Lee came by before leaving for the night. “You’ll have the magistrate’s approval for the arrest by morning,” she said. “If the lab confirms the blood on the fabric matches Lydia’s, that’s enough to charge him.”

“Good,” I said, my voice calm. “He won’t talk, but evidence will.”

She studied me for a long moment before saying quietly, “You’re awfully certain for someone who used to call him a friend.”

I looked up. “Friendship doesn’t change facts.”

She nodded but didn’t smile. “Maybe not. But it changes the way we see them.”

After she left, I leaned back in my chair. The light flickered slightly, the shadows across my desk long and uneven.

Marcus’s words replayed in my mind: She wanted to tell you something. About us.

I felt my jaw tighten. Whatever guilt he carried, it didn’t matter now. The case was falling exactly as it should.

The town would know by morning.

Marcus Hale, husband, liar, murderer.

And I would be the one to bring him justice.