Barret’s Prologue
Barret’s Prologue
The room hums like it’s alive—too bright.
Too close.
The fluorescent light above me buzzes like a fly trapped in glass, and I wonder how long it’ll take before I smash it just to hear silence.
“Did you do it?”
The detective leans forward, his tie too tight, his pen tapping against the file before him. He wants me rattled. He wants me to crack.
I stare at the table. Nothing on it but my reflection in the metal—hollow eyes, too many sleepless nights. I know the drill: let the silence do the talking.
“You don’t look surprised to be here.” His tone is calm, practiced, like he’s rehearsed this line a hundred times. Maybe he has. Guys like him love the show.
I shrug. My lawyer told me this was just an interview. Questions. Answers optional.
“Barret Hetfield,” the detective says, drawing out the name like it belongs in a headline. “Rockstar. Rehab regularly. Alleged witness. Probable suspect. Take your pick.” He smirks, like I’m supposed to rise to it.
“We can charge you—or cut a deal.”
I yawn because they don’t have anything. Only gossip that might be something.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
Another shrug. The cuff of my flannel slides up, exposing the tattoo on my forearm—it’s a flower design, and the initials ECB. His eyes flicker there, and I smile like I planned it.
“Did you do it?” he presses.
I don’t answer.
Instead, I glance up—meet his eyes like I’ve just noticed he’s still here.
I smile.
Then yawn one more time, covering my mouth. “If that’s all, I’d like to leave now.” I press my lips closed. “Unless you want to press charges for who the fuck knows what.”
My pulse stumbles. Just once. I cover it with another smirk.
“I already told you—”
“You want to know about a girl I fucked a couple of times.” I shrug. “There’s a big list of those. I don’t keep track of them. If you need anything else, talk to my lawyer.”
“Did you do it?” he presses again.
I grin wider. “Depends on what you think I’m guilty of.”