The handcuffs were colder than I expected.
Detective Simone Finch locked them around my wrists, the metal biting into skin that hadn't seen sunlight in three days. I'd been hiding in my apartment since the warrant was issued, waiting for this moment.
"Ava Caldwell, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder. You have the right to remain silent."
I already knew my rights. I'd looked them up at two in the morning, hands shaking so badly I could barely type.
"Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"
"Yes."
The perp walk was exactly as humiliating as I'd imagined. Reporters shouting questions. Neighbors staring like I was a stranger. Mrs. Chen from 3B had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
She had no idea how horrifying the truth actually was.
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and industrial cleaner. Simone guided me through processing with a hand on my elbow, firm enough that I knew running wasn't an option.
Fingerprints. Photographs. Mugshot with a placard showing my name and case number. The flash made me blink.
"This way."
Simone led me to an interrogation room. Beige walls, metal table, two chairs. A camera in the corner with a blinking red light.
She gestured to one chair. I sat. The handcuffs made it awkward.
"Water?"
"No. Thank you."
Simone settled across from me, placing a manila folder on the table. She was older than I'd expected, maybe mid-forties, with sharp eyes that had probably seen every kind of lie.
"When did you know he was killing them?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Not "did you know" but "when." She already had the answer.
My throat tightened. "I need to start at the beginning."
"Then start." Simone leaned back, crossing her arms. "We have all night."
Everything I said would be recorded. Analyzed. Used against me. My lawyer would tell me to shut up, wait for representation.
But I was so tired of silence.
"Eight months ago, I met Elliot Cross at a medical data conference."
Simone pulled out a notepad, pen poised.
"I was a hospice care coordinator at Mercy General. Six years in the field. I'd just sat with a patient, Mrs. Beatrice Novak, while she died screaming." The words felt like glass in my throat. "She was seventy-three, terminal brain cancer, pain level nine out of ten. She begged me to make it stop, and all I could do was hold her hand."
I could still feel Mrs. Novak's fingers digging into my palm.
"I went home that night and stared at my wall until three in the morning. Work had hollowed me out. I was a professional witness to agony."
Simone's pen scratched across paper.
"The conference was mandatory. I didn't want to be there. But then Elliot presented on predictive suffering trajectories in terminal care. He'd built an algorithm that could identify which patients would experience the worst decline."
My voice caught.
"The way he talked about suffering felt personal. During Q&A, I asked about the ethical implications. He looked right at me and said, 'That's exactly the right question.'"
"And then what happened?"
"After the session, he approached me. We talked for twenty minutes that felt like five. Then coffee for three hours." The relief of that conversation, the feeling of being seen. "I told him about Mrs. Novak. He told me about his mother dying of terminal cancer, eight months of agony."
That part was a lie. I knew that now.
"He said, 'Sometimes I think we've gotten so good at preventing death that we've forgotten death can be mercy.'" I looked down at my cuffed hands. "And I felt less alone than I had in years."
Simone set down her pen. "When did the relationship become romantic?"
"Three weeks later. After he started consulting at Mercy General. I started telling him about my patients. The ones who haunted me."
"Specific patients?"
"Yes." The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. "Mateo Ruiz. Screaming through the night despite maximum morphine. I told Elliot I wished I could do more."
"And did you?"
"I didn't know I was." My voice dropped. "Mateo died peacefully three days later. I called Elliot crying. He came over. We kissed."
"How many patients did you discuss with Mr. Cross before you knew what he was doing?"
"Fifteen."
"And after you knew?"
I closed my eyes. "Thirty-one more."
Silence except for the hum of fluorescent lights.
"So you unknowingly helped Elliot Cross select fifteen victims," Simone said slowly. "And then, after discovering he was killing them, you consciously helped him select thirty-one more."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I thought I was helping them. I thought I was ending suffering. I thought I was providing mercy."
Simone slid a photograph across the table. A woman, thirty-one, smiling. Dark hair, bright eyes, a little girl in her lap.
"Talia Hoffman. Thirty-one years old. Chronic pain, but not terminal. Years left. Five-year-old daughter. Died six months ago because the algorithm made a mistake. Wrong patient."
My stomach dropped.
"She wasn't supposed to die," I whispered.
"None of them were." Simone's voice hardened. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies. You don't get to play God."
"I know."
"Do you? Because you helped kill forty-six people. And when we got close, you fled the country."
"I was scared."
"Of justice."
"Of everything. Of what I'd done. Of Jonas."
Simone's expression shifted. "Tell me about Jonas Kade."
"Elliot's partner. His fixer. He handled complications."
"What kind of complications?"
"Witnesses. Suspicious family members. Anyone who threatened exposure."
"Did Jonas Kade kill people?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"At least five that Elliot mentioned."
Simone made a note. "Jonas Kade died in the Costa Rica raid. But you're facing charges. And Elliot's in custody."
She paused. "His lawyer reached out this morning. He's offering to testify you had no knowledge. That he manipulated you."
Hope flickered.
"But we have evidence you knew. Emails after you discovered the truth. Texts discussing patients. Records you accessed and shared. Flight records showing you fled voluntarily."
The hope died.
"You're looking at thirty-one counts of conspiracy to commit murder. Plus obstruction and fleeing prosecution. You could spend life in prison."
My hands shook so badly the handcuffs rattled.
"Unless you cooperate. Tell us everything."
The door opened. A man in an expensive suit walked in. David Brennan, the lawyer I'd called three days ago.
"Detective, I need a moment with my client. Alone."
"Of course." Simone gathered her folder. At the door, she paused. "See you in court, Ms. Caldwell."
The door closed. David set his briefcase down and sat.
"Stop talking. Whatever you just told her, we're going to minimize the damage. But from now on, you say nothing without me present. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now tell me exactly what you said."
I looked at the blinking camera, at this man who was supposed to save me.
"Everything," I said. "I told her everything."
David's expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes did.
"Well," he said finally, "then we have our work cut out for us."