Chapter 9- JADE
The police station smells like burnt coffee and despair.
I notice it the moment we walk through the doors, that unusual combination of stale air and industrial cleaner and the lingering anxiety of everyone who's ever sat in these plastic chairs.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow that makes even Phoenix look slightly unwell.
We're holding hands. His grip is firm, reassuring, but I can feel the tension running through him.
The front desk is manned by a tired-looking officer who barely glances up as we approach.
Phoenix gives our names, explains that we're here to see Detective Nowak, and the officer makes a phone call that seems to take forever.
I study the wanted posters on the bulletin board behind him, the faded safety notices, the sign reminding visitors that weapons are prohibited.
As if I needed another reason to feel like a criminal.
"Someone will be right with you," the officer says, gesturing toward a row of chairs along the wall. "Have a seat."
We sit. We wait. Phoenix's thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, a soothing rhythm that does nothing to calm the storm in my chest. I watch people come and go, officers in uniform, civilians with worried faces, a woman crying softly into her phone in the corner.
Everyone here has a story. Everyone here is dealing with something terrible.
I wonder how many of them are lying about it.
The door to the back opens and a young officer emerges, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Crawford? Ms. Catalano?"
We stand together, but the officer shakes his head.
"We'll be speaking with you separately. Ms. Catalano, you'll be in Interview Room B. Mr. Crawford, you're in Room A."
My heart stops. We prepared for this possibility, Phoenix warned me they might try to separate us, but knowing it could happen and having it actually happen are two very different things. I feel my hand tighten convulsively around Phoenix's, and he squeezes back.
"It's fine," he murmurs, leaning close so only I can hear. "Just like we rehearsed. It'll be fine."
I nod, not trusting my voice. He releases my hand, and the loss of contact feels like losing a limb.
The officer leads me down a hallway lined with doors, each one identical, each one hiding God knows what behind its institutional gray surface. We stop at the third door on the left, and he pushes it open to reveal a small, windowless room that makes my chest tight.
A metal table sits in the center, bolted to the floor. Two chairs on one side, one on the other. A camera mounted in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. The walls are bare except for a mirror that I know is two-way glass, which means someone is probably watching me right now.
"Have a seat," the officer says. "The detectives will be with you shortly."
He leaves, and the door closes behind him with a click that sounds far too final.
I sit in the single chair, facing the mirror, and try to remember how to breathe. The air in here is stale and recycled. I can hear the faint hum of the ventilation system, the distant murmur of voices somewhere down the hall. My own heartbeat, pounding in my ears.
I wait.
Minutes pass, or maybe hours. Time moves strangely in this room, stretching and contracting in ways that make me feel unmoored.
I study the table, the scratches in its surface, the faint rings left by coffee cups.
How many people have sat here before me?
How many of them walked out free, and how many of them are sitting in prison cells right now?
The door opens.
Detective Nowak enters first, followed by Detective Reeves.
They're carrying folders, notepads, cups of coffee that smell infinitely better than anything I've encountered in this building so far.
Nowak takes the chair directly across from me while Reeves settles into the one beside him, slightly back, like he's just here to observe.
"Ms. Catalano," Nowak says, his sharp eyes meeting mine. "Thank you for coming in. We appreciate your cooperation."
"Of course." My voice sounds strange to my own ears, too high and too thin. I clear my throat. "Whatever I can do to help."
"Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine."
I'm the opposite of fine. But admitting that feels like admitting defeat.
Nowak opens his folder and glances at some papers inside. I try to read them upside down, but the angle is wrong and my eyes won't focus properly. Reeves is watching me with those kind grandfather eyes, and somehow that's worse than Nowak's sharp assessment. It feels like a trap.
"We just want to go over a few things," Nowak says, his tone conversational. "Clarify some details, fill in some gaps. Nothing to worry about."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
"Let's start with the timeline. When did you first come to California?"
The question catches me off guard. I was expecting them to dive straight into Marcus, straight into the night at the cabin, but this feels almost mundane. Normal. Like we're just having a friendly chat.
"About six weeks ago," I say, calculating quickly. "Phoenix invited me to visit."
"And you'd been in a relationship with Mr. Crawford for how long at that point?"
"We'd just started seeing each other. A few weeks, maybe."
"How did you two meet?"
I remember the story Phoenix and I agreed on. Keep it simple and close to the truth. "At a business function in Boston. Phoenix was there for a conference, and we were introduced by a mutual acquaintance."
Reeves jots something in his notepad. The scratch of his pen is impossibly loud in the quiet room.
"And Marcus Webb," Nowak says, leaning forward slightly. "Was he at this function?"
"Yes. He was Phoenix's business partner. They were both there."
"Did you have any interactions with Mr. Webb that night?"
I hesitate for just a fraction of a second. I think about the way Marcus looked at me across the room, the way his gaze made my skin crawl even before I knew what kind of monster he really was. Should I mention it? Would it seem suspicious if I didn't?
"Brief," I say finally. "We were introduced. We exchanged a few words. That was it."
"What kind of words?"
"Just pleasantries. Nice to meet you, that sort of thing. I don't remember the specifics."
Nowak nods, his expression giving nothing away. "Did Mr. Webb ever contact you directly after that night? Phone calls? Text messages? Emails?"
"No." This, at least, is true. Marcus never contacted me. He just showed up at the cabin, uninvited. "We didn't have that kind of relationship. I barely knew him."
"But you saw him again, didn't you? At other events? Business dinners?"
"Once or twice." I keep my voice steady, my expression neutral. "Phoenix and Marcus worked together. I was sometimes present for business functions. But Marcus and I never spoke one-on-one. There was no reason to."
Reeves looks up from his notepad. "Did you ever feel uncomfortable around Mr. Webb?"
The question lands like a punch. I force myself not to react, not to let the memory of Marcus's hands on my body show on my face.
"He was a little intense," I say carefully. "The way some men in business are. But I wouldn't say I was uncomfortable. I just didn't know him well."
Nowak and Reeves exchange a glance that I can't read. Then Nowak flips to a new page in his folder.
"Let's talk about the cabin trip. You and Mr. Crawford went up to the mountains about two weeks ago, is that correct?"
"Yes. We wanted to get away for a few days. It was supposed to be romantic."
"When did you arrive at the cabin?"
I tell him the date, the approximate time, all the details Phoenix and I rehearsed until they felt like real memories.
"And when did you leave?"
"Two days later. We cut the trip short because of the weather. A storm was coming in, and we didn't want to get snowed in."
"Did anything unusual happen while you were there?"
My heart is pounding so hard I'm certain they can hear it. This is the question. This is the moment where everything could fall apart.
"No," I say, and the lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "It was quiet. We hiked, we cooked dinner, we enjoyed the peace and quiet. That's all."
"You didn't see anyone else while you were there? No visitors? No unexpected encounters?"
"No. We were completely alone."
Nowak studies my face, his sharp eyes searching for cracks. I meet his gaze and try to project calm, innocence, the kind of open honesty that says I have nothing to hide. Inside, I'm screaming.
"Did you see Mr. Webb at any point during or after that trip?"
"No." The word comes out firm, certain. Practiced. "The last time I saw Marcus was at a business dinner about three weeks ago. I haven't seen or spoken to him since."
A long pause stretches between us. Nowak glances at Reeves, who gives an almost imperceptible shrug. Then Nowak closes his folder and leans back in his chair.
"Ms. Catalano, is there anything else you'd like to tell us? Anything at all that might be relevant to our investigation?"
I think about the body buried in the frozen ground. The blood Phoenix scrubbed from the cabin floor. The fire poker that caved in Marcus's skull. The sounds he made as he died, sounds that still echo through my nightmares.
"No," I say. "I've told you everything I know."
Nowak nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch if we have any further questions."
He stands, and Reeves follows suit. The interview is over, just like that, and I'm not sure if I should feel relieved or terrified. They didn't accuse me of anything. They didn't produce evidence or catch me in a lie. But they didn't clear me either.
The officer who brought me here appears in the doorway. "Ms. Catalano? I'll escort you back to the lobby.”
My legs feel like jelly, my mind racing through every answer I gave, every pause that might have seemed suspicious, every moment where I might have revealed something I shouldn't have. The walk back down the hallway feels endless, and when we emerge into the lobby, Phoenix isn't there.
Of course he isn't. Both detectives were in the room with me. They haven't even started with him yet.
The officer gestures toward the plastic chairs. "Have a seat. Shouldn't be too long.”
I sit and wait, watching the clock on the wall tick through minutes that feel like hours.
People come and go. The tired officer at the front desk answers phones and shuffles paperwork.
A woman argues with someone about a parking ticket.
Normal life, happening all around me, while my entire world hangs in the balance.
What are they asking Phoenix right now? Are they using my answers against him, looking for inconsistencies, setting traps? Did I say something wrong without realizing it?
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door to the back opens and Phoenix emerges. His posture is rigid, his face carefully blank, but when he sees me, I see relief in his eyes. Or maybe fear. I can't tell anymore.
He stands and crosses to me, taking my hand. "Ready to go?"
I nod. We don't speak again until we're in the car, doors closed, the noise of the city muffled by glass and steel.
"What did they ask you?" Phoenix says, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I tell him everything. The timeline questions. The cabin. Whether I'd seen Marcus after the dinner. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, but I can see his jaw tightening with every word.
"What did you say about seeing Marcus?"
"I said no. That I hadn't seen him since the business dinner three weeks ago."
Phoenix nods. "Good. That's what I said too."
But something in his voice doesn't quite ring true. Or maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe the paranoia is finally getting to me, making me see cracks where there are none.
"Phoenix," I say quietly. "What if I said something wrong? What if our stories don't match exactly?"
"They match. We prepared for this."
"But they asked me things we didn't prepare for. Little things. The exact date we arrived at the cabin. Whether I felt uncomfortable around Marcus. Details I had to make up on the spot."
He reaches for my hand, his grip warm and steady. "It's going to be okay."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that we covered our tracks, that our stories aligned, that the detectives are satisfied with our answers and will move on to other suspects.
But I can't stop seeing the red light of the camera, blinking in the corner of that gray room.
I can't stop wondering what Phoenix said in his interview that he's not telling me.