Chapter 90. Interrogation

Chapter 90. Interrogation
The PA finally rasped: “Emma Turner and Alice Harper to Guidance, please.”
My pencil rolled off the desk as if it couldn’t get away fast enough. Alice rose with me, shoulders squared like we were marching into a pop quiz neither of us had studied for.
The hallway outside the guidance suite smelled of copy-machine toner and somebody’s cold cinnamon roll. In the first chair sat Diana herself—ponytail limp, eyes ringed scarlet, uniform jacket streaked with grime the custodians hadn’t managed to scrub out yet. A blanket from the nurse’s office was draped across her lap. She didn’t look at us; she stared at the floor, jaw clenched so tight it trembled.
A female officer—Ramirez, her badge read—stepped forward with a gentle smile that didn’t reach her tired eyes. “Emma? Alice? Thanks for coming promptly. We just have a few questions.”
Alice and I exchanged a nod. The questioning wasn’t an interrogation so much as a timeline check: Where were you after last bell? Who can vouch? Did you ever hear Diana mention a stalker? Had you personally threatened her?
I recounted my usual routine—library, bus, home by 4:45. Alice confirmed she’d been at debate practice. We told the truth about the bullying incidents: the tray, the Sharpie, the janitor’s closet. Officer Ramirez scribbled notes, her brow knitting when we described Diana’s more recent anxiety.
“Did she tell anyone she felt followed?”
“She bragged about getting weird texts,” Alice offered, voice softening despite herself. “But we thought it was another stunt—Diana always dramatizes.”
Ramirez nodded, not judging. “Thank you. Please don’t discuss this interview with other students yet—it could taint statements.” She handed us each a card in case we remembered anything later.
As we stood to leave, Diana’s head jerked up, finally meeting my eyes. For one heartbeat the cafeteria tyrant was gone and only raw fear stared back. I wanted to say something—I’m sorry, nobody deserves this—but the counselor ushered us out before words formed.
Alice exhaled. “Well, that was surreal.”
“Yeah.” The picture of Diana’s shaken face clung to my thoughts. “She’s really terrified.”
“Whoever did it is seriously twisted.” Alice chewed her lip. “Bet the police find them quick, though. Surveillance cams everywhere.”
I hoped she was right.
Backpacks thudded around us as fourth period let out. I was spinning my combination when I felt a presence at my shoulder—familiar, tall, smelling faintly of vanilla soap and espresso.
“You okay?” Irene asked quietly.
I nodded, still shaky. “Just finished the interview. They’re thorough.”
She looked relieved, then worried. “Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet. They’ll comb footage.” I hesitated, then asked, “How are you holding up?”
“Got asked about practice times and if I’d noticed cars loitering in the lot.” She rubbed the gauze on her knuckle absent-mindedly. “This whole thing feels…” She searched for a word and settled on, “Wrong.”
“Yeah.” I hugged my binder. “Even if Diana was awful, nobody should go through that.”
Behind us, lockers slammed like muffled thunder. Irene’s gaze flickered to the commotion, then softened back on me. “Do you need to bail on the rest of the day? I’ve got an extra hall pass.”
The offer was tempting, but fleeing wouldn’t undo the knot in my stomach. “I’ll stick it out.”
Her shoulders eased. “Then I’ll see you at lunch. I saved a seat. We can trade thoughts—or just share fries.”
A small steady warmth pulsed in my chest. “Fries sound good.”
She managed a half-smile—tentative but real—before slipping into the crowd.
Ms. Barnes launched into Macbeth soliloquies, but my mind replayed everything: Diana’s hollow stare, police note cards, Irene’s quiet support. Somewhere above the clamor, I pictured Lara’s rooftop and its calm stars. Two worlds tugged at opposite sleeves, neither feeling safe, both demanding trust.
But today’s chaos reminded me trust couldn’t be forced or timed; it had to unfold, slow as sunrise, even while sirens flashed outside. I took a deep breath, opened my notebook, and let Shakespeare’s lines march across the page—hoping that, like the play’s battered heroes, I’d find a way to stand firm when every truth felt shaky underfoot.
Outside, a patrol car’s lights strobed against the window. Inside, I wrote the date in the margin, anchored my thoughts to the paper, and braced for whatever answers the investigation—or my own heart—might deliver next.