They don't say much as they take me into the police station. My hands are still cuffed, my steps forced to match their pace. The bright lights inside the building feel blinding after the cold of the night outside.
And everything turns into procedure.
My name is recorded. My belongings are taken one by one. Wallet, phone, watch. Even my clothes. The shirt, still stiff with dried blood, is stripped off without ceremony and placed into a clear evidence bag, as if it's just another object, not something that was clinging to my skin minutes ago.
I stand still as they photograph me from every angle. The camera flashes are brief, but enough to make me feel like an object, not a person.
"Look straight."
I obey.
Then they take my fingerprints, one by one. Fingers pressed into ink, then onto paper, over and over in a methodical rhythm. After that, they make me open my hands again.
An officer takes samples from beneath my nails, scraping carefully but long enough to make me realize that whatever is there… they're taking it.
"Open your mouth."
I look at him for a moment, then comply. A long swab is inserted, brushed against the inside of my cheek, then sealed inside a small tube labeled with my name. It all feels like they're collecting pieces of me.
Another officer photographs my arms, my neck, even the side of my face. Small cuts, stains… anything they can see.
"Raise your hands."
I do
"Turn around."
I turn.
No one asks if I'm comfortable, and at some point, I stop trying to understand. Stop trying to remember. I just stand there, letting them take whatever they need. Because from the way they look at me, they already know I did it. Or at least, they've decided I did.
I've been sitting in the interrogation room for four hours.
There's no clock on the wall, but I can feel it in the stiffness of my neck and the emptiness in my head. No one comes in. No one explains anything. Just me, a metal table, and the low hum of the light above me.
My hands are cuffed on the table. Dried blood clings to my skin, hardened between my fingers and along the lines of my palms. It's darker now. Almost black. I stare at it for too long, as if focusing hard enough might give me answers.
I close my eyes, forcing my memory to come back.
Earlier this evening… I remember getting home early. I was still in my work uniform. I remember checking the time, rushing a little because I had plans with a woman I met a few weeks ago at a bar. Her hair was dark… or maybe blonde, I'm not sure anymore.
Shit.
What was her name?
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, my voice rough from the silence.
A moment later, the door opens. A man walks in calmly. He's wearing a blue striped shirt, crisp without a single wrinkle. His hair is cut short, almost too perfect. He sits across from me without a sound.
"I'm Detective Cooper," he says flatly. "Raymond?"
I swallow, my throat dry. "R-Ray."
He nids slightly, like he's filing that away.
"Alright, Raymond. Ray," he continues, his eyes dropping to my blood-covered hands. "You want to tell me whose blood that is?"
I look at him, then back at my hands. "I don't know."
One eyebrow lifts. "You don't know?"
"I don't remember anything."
He leans back slightly, exhaling as if he's heard that answer too many times.
"Alright," he says. "We've got a witness who saw you leaving Riverside Heights. Running and covered in blood."
My chest tightens.
"We've already been there," he continues calmly. "And guess what we found."
I don't need to guess. The image is already in my head, faint but there. I know that somewhere inside that goddamn apartment, there's a woman lying on the floor… without a head.
I swallow, but it doesn't help.
"And do you know where her head is?" Cooper asks.
I stay silent. Because I don't know. I really don't know anything. But he just watches me for a few seconds longer before dropping the next sentence like it's nothing.
"It was in the trunk of your car. A 2003 Honda Civic."
My world stops for a second.
Shit.
I shake my head slowly, my breathing starting to break.
"I swear," I say, my voice cracking. "I don't know what happened. I—"
"Yeah," he cuts in. "They all say that."
I know how this looks. Even without their story, without any other evidence, this is enough to bury me alive. I take a deep breath, then lift my gaze to him.
"I want a lawyer."
"So you're admitting you did something wrong, enough to need a lawyer?" Cooper says casually.
I exhale slowly, meeting his eyes.
"Oh, come on," I say flatly. "My position here isn't exactly favorable."
Cooper smiles faintly.
"Interesting," he says. "Because innocent people… don't usually ask for a lawyer right away."
I don't answer. Just stare at the table, at the blood stains drying like something I can't wash away no matter how hard I try.
"Raymond," he continues, leaning forward slightly. "This is your chance. You can help yourself right now. Tell me what you remember. Just a little."
"I told you," I reply quietly. "I don't remember anything."
"Don't remember… or don'twant to remember?"
I look up. His gaze is sharp, measuring, like he's trying to dissect my mind without permission.
"There's a difference," he adds. "And I'm smart enough to know which is which."
I tighten my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm.
"Look," Cooper continues, his tone shifting slightly. "We've got a witness. We've got a crime scene. We've got… body parts in your car." He pauses, letting that sink in. "All we need now is your version."
I don't move.
"Because if you don't talk," he goes on, "the prosecutor will write your story for you. And trust me, they won't make you look good."
Silence fills the room again. The light above hums softly. I can feel my heartbeat, slower now. But I know this game. He wants me to panic. To talk too much, too fast. To give him something—anything—he can use.
I take a deep breath, then lift my head.
"Raymond—"
"I'm not saying anything else without a lawyer," I cut in.
A few seconds pass without a word. Cooper watches me, like he's still deciding whether I'll crack if he pushes a little harder.
I don't move.
Finally, he leans back and exhaling shortly.
"Alright," he says. "We'll do this the hard way." He stands, straightening his shirt. "You know where to find us if your memory suddenly comes back."
I don't answer. And Cooper leaves the room, leaving me alone with the blood on my handsand a silence that feels heavier than before.