The interrogation turned personal. “How much do you owe your landlord, Lena?” Sato asked, his voice deceptively soft. They knew everything. They knew about the late fees, the two-week-old groceries in her fridge, the fact that she hadn’t bought new shoes in three years. Each question was a needle, stitching together a portrait of a woman pushed to the edge.
“Being poor isn’t a crime,” Lena snapped, though her eyes were stinging with tears. Harlan tilted his head. “No, but it’s a motive. We see it every day. Good people, desperate times, one bad choice.” He sounded almost sympathetic, which was worse than the shouting. He was inviting her to confess, to “make it easy” on herself, as if ruining her life were a simple clerical error.
She realized they weren’t looking for the thief anymore; they had found their culprit and were now just waiting for her to fit the mold. The room felt smaller, the air thinner. She was trapped in a story she hadn’t written, being judged for a life she was trying so hard to fix. “I want a lawyer,” she finally said, the words feeling like a white flag of surrender.