Chapter 155

[Marcus's POV]

The observation room felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago. I stood at the one-way glass, watching Adrian sit motionless in Interview Room Three, and tried to ignore the metallic taste of failure in my mouth.

"We need to use what we have to bait him into talking," I said quietly, aware of Claire standing just behind my right shoulder. "Can't keep hammering with direct questions."

She nodded, her reflection ghostly in the glass. "Benjamin's journal mentioned their relationship ten years ago. Maybe that's his weak spot."

Before I could respond, the door slammed open.

Chief Owen Walker strode in, his face the color of old brick. The door crashed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the observation window.

"Reid." His voice cut through the small space like a blade. "Can you guarantee me this evidence chain is solid?"

I turned slowly, meeting his eyes. The silence stretched for three heartbeats. "The evidence is incomplete, Chief."

"Yesterday on the phone you sounded a hell of a lot more confident!" Owen's voice rose, echoing off the concrete walls. "Do you understand what happens if we can't make this stick? If we have to cut him loose in—" he checked his watch, "forty-six hours?"

Behind me, Claire shifted her weight. I could feel her tension, the way she'd taken an instinctive step backward from Owen's anger.

I drew a breath, let it out slow. "If I can't build a case that holds within the forty-eight-hour window, I'll resign. Take full responsibility."

The words hung in the air between us. Owen's jaw worked, his eyes searching my face for something—doubt, maybe, or hesitation. I gave him neither.

Finally, he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive. Then he turned and left, the door closing with the same violence it had opened with.

The silence that followed felt like the aftermath of a gunshot.

"Do you have a plan?" Claire's voice was small, worried.

I shook my head. "Not a good one. If he stays silent, we have nothing that'll stand up in court."

She gripped her notebook tighter, knuckles going white. "Then I'm going back to Benjamin's house. Look for evidence. We have forty-eight hours—every minute counts."

I studied her face—the determination there, mixed with fear and something fiercer. Responsibility. "Take Samantha with you."

"You trust me to do this?"

"More than I trust anyone right now." The truth of it surprised even me. "Anything you find, call immediately."

She nodded, already moving toward the door. Samantha materialized in the hallway as if she'd been waiting.

"Claire." I stopped her at the threshold. "Be careful."

The look she gave me held more weight than words. Then she was gone, and I was alone with Adrian's silent form on the other side of the glass.

---

I gave myself five minutes. Stood at that window, watching the man who held all the answers and refused to give a single one. Adrian's posture hadn't changed—hands folded, spine straight, eyes closed like he was meditating.

I thought about Benjamin's journal—the entries Claire and Samantha had copied. The friendship that started ten years ago. The sudden isolation. The dreams that mirrored murders.

Adrian had been there through all of it. Close enough to know Benjamin's secrets. Close enough to kill him.

I pushed open the observation room door and walked the short hallway to Interview Room Three. The camera's red light blinked steadily as I entered.

Adrian's eyes opened. He looked at me with that same patient, waiting expression.

I sat down, but this time I didn't arrange my papers in the aggressive posture of interrogation. Instead, I leaned back slightly, as if settling in to tell a story.

"Let me walk through something, Adrian," I said, my voice conversational. "Just my theory about how this all happened."

His eyebrow raised a fraction. Curious.

"Ten years ago, you were struggling as a writer. Rejection letters piling up. No one reading your work, no one caring about your talent." I watched his breathing pattern. Steady. Controlled. "Then somehow, you met Benjamin Davis. Established author. Success you dreamed about."

Adrian's fingers, folded on the table, didn't move. But I caught the slight tension in his jaw.

"That must have felt like a miracle," I continued. "Finally, someone who understood. Someone who could help you break through."

I paused, giving the silence room to work.

"So you cultivated that friendship. Invested time, energy, hope. Believed that Benjamin would teach you the secrets. Show you how to succeed."

Adrian's left eyelid twitched. Just once. Barely visible.

But I saw it.

"Except he didn't, did he?" My tone stayed gentle, almost sympathetic. "He never taught you craft. Never helped you improve. Never even really read your work."

Adrian's chest rose with a deeper breath than before.

"Instead, he used you as an emotional dumping ground. Told you about his failing marriage, his guilt, his isolation. Used you to process his pain."

I leaned forward slightly. "While your dreams—your talent, your desperation to be seen—didn't exist to him at all."

The silence that followed felt different. Charged. Adrian's eyes closed again, but his eyelids were tight now. Compressed. Like he was fighting something behind them.

"Ten years, Adrian. Ten years of being invisible to the one person who should have seen you."

His breathing had changed. Deeper. Deliberate. The kind of breathing someone uses to control emotion.

I sat back, giving him space. The clock ticked. The camera's red light blinked. And between us, in that concrete room, something had finally cracked.

Not enough to break through. Not yet.

But it was a start.