The confession doesn’t come in a courtroom.
It doesn’t arrive with warnings or formality or the illusion of distance. There’s no raised bench, no gallery, no sense that what’s about to be said can be contained by procedure.
It comes in a windowless interview room that smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee, the kind that’s been reheated too many times. A single table is bolted to the floor, its surface scarred with shallow scratches. One chair scrapes every time someone shifts their weight, the sound sharp enough to feel intentional.
The partner sits across from us, wrists cuffed, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced. Not careless. Calculated. Performative calm. Like he believes control still belongs to him as long as he chooses when to speak.
I sit beside Damian.
Not
