The detective’s voice drifts through my office. “An incident. Is that what you call murder?”
I inhale deeply, aware of the slight tremor running through my arms and of my chilled fingers. “That’s probably not the best description,” I admit.
“Shall we?”
I get my tote bag and I’m about to ask if I need a lawyer, but then I remember the advice I tell my clients, and shelve the idea. I have nothing to hide.
“I’m not sure what I can say that I haven’t already shared, but I’m happy to answer your questions.”
He offers to drive but I insist on driving myself. If he’d insisted on driving me, I would have called a lawyer.
At the station, he directs me through a waiting room filled with citizens and police officers, up to a second floor, then down a hall.
The precinct’s second floor smells like burnt coffee and bad decisions. Detective Lassiter leads me past a bullpen of cluttered desks, each one a monument to unsolved cases and overtime hours. Officers glance up as we pass—some with curiosity, others with the blank stare of those who’ve seen too many “persons of interest” to care.
Room 204. He holds the door, gesturing me inside with practiced courtesy that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The interrogation room is exactly what Hollywood gets wrong: no dramatic spotlight, no good-cop-bad-cop theater. Just a beige box with a scarred metal table, three chairs that have seen better decades, and a two-way mirror that reflects my pale face back at me. The fluorescent light above flickers every seventeen seconds. I count to keep my mind occupied, to stop myself from filling the silence with nervous words—the first mistake I counsel my clients not to make.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?” Lassiter asks, settling into his chair with the ease of someone who’s spent thousands of hours in this exact position. His notepad lies closed between us. No pen yet. That’s intentional.
“No, thank you. I really need to pick up my daughter soon.”
“Right, right. Stella, isn’t it? Twelve years old?” He knows her name. Of course he does. “Must be tough, juggling single motherhood with running Morgan & Company. High-profile clients, crisis management—that’s pressure.”
Baseline questions. He’s establishing rapport while cataloging my normal behavioral patterns—how I sit when relaxed, my natural speech cadence, where my eyes go when I’m thinking versus lying. I’ve coached clients through this.
“It has its moments,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“I’ll try to keep this brief.” He stands, and I think he’s leaving already, but no—he’s adjusting the wall vent to direct the air flow. The room was already cold. Now it’s arctic. Another tactic: physical discomfort breaks down resistance.
He sits back down, finally pulling out a pen. It’s a cheap Bic, the kind that clicks. He clicks it once. Twice. Three times. The sound drills into my temple where a headache threatens to form.
He settles back, clicking his pen. “You understand this is being recorded?” He gestures to the camera. “You’re free to leave. Free to have an attorney. Want one?”
Here’s the trap. Say yes, and I look guilty. Say no, and I’m vulnerable. I think of Noah getting the call from Gabriel, realizing he’s probably worried. I think of Stella at school, expecting me to pick her up for shopping. I think of Matthew Delacroix, unconscious on that conference room floor.
“Not at this time.”
Click. Click. Click goes his pen.
“Good. That’s good, Ms. Morgan. Shows you want to help.” He opens his notepad finally, makes a show of writing something down. “Let’s start with something easy. How long have you been in the PR business?”
“Twenty years, give or take.”
“And you worked at Bright Communications before starting your own firm?”
My spine stiffens slightly. He’s done his homework. “Yes. About thirteen years ago.”
“That’s where you met Matthew Delacroix.”
Not a question. A statement. The air in the room shifts.
“We worked there at the same time, yes.”
“Same time.” He tastes the words like wine. “Same accounts?”
“Occasionally.”