I stood beside my sister’s coffin, one hand on the tiny casket ribbon meant for the baby she never got to hold, when her husband walked in with his mistress on his arm. My bl:ood ran cold. ‘You really thought I wouldn’t find out?’ I said, flashing my badge. For weeks, I’d gathered every lie, every message, every trace of bl:ood. And when I exposed him in front of everyone, his smile vanished—but that was only the beginning.

The interrogation room was deliberately kept cold, the steel table bolted to the floor. I stood behind the two-way mirror, my arms crossed tightly over my chest. I had officially recused myself from the direct questioning—department policy when family was involved—but my superior, Captain Reyes, allowed me to observe. I had built the digital foundation of this case; I deserved to watch it play out.

Inside the room, Victor looked rumpled. His bespoke charcoal suit was creased, and the arrogance had settled into a sullen, defensive glare. Detective Miller, a veteran with a knack for breaking narcissists, dropped a thick manila folder onto the table.

“Let’s talk about your timeline on the night of the 14th, Victor,” Miller said, pulling out a chair.

“I already gave my statement,” Victor replied, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I was at the Sterling Tower. Working late. I swiped my keycard into the executive garage at 8:00 PM and didn’t swipe out until 1:00 AM. Elise’s accident happened at 10:30 PM. The security logs prove it.”

Miller opened the folder. “Yes, they do. Your card swiped in. But your car didn’t stay.”

I watched Victor’s throat work as he swallowed hard.

Miller slid a photograph across the table. It was a grainy, high-contrast image pulled from a traffic camera two blocks from the Sterling Tower. “This is your customized Porsche 911, Victor. The license plate is clearly visible. Time stamp: 9:15 PM. Heading directly toward Highway 101.”

“My car was stolen,” Victor lied smoothly. “Or someone borrowed it. I was in my office.”

“We pulled your office computer data, Victor,” Miller said, leaning in. “Thanks to Special Agent Clara’s digital forensics team, we know exactly what you were doing. Or rather, what you weren't doing. Zero keystrokes. Zero emails sent. But we did find a very interesting script running on your terminal—a mouse-jiggler program designed to make it look like someone was active on the network while you were actually sneaking out the freight elevator.”