IMOGEN'S POV
The police station smelled like burnt coffee and industrial disinfectant. I sat in the gray interview room, my hands folded on the metal table, waiting for Detective Martinez to return with her notepad. The bandage on my temple pulled tight when I turned my head, a reminder of how close I'd come to dying in that house.
Isaac had given his statement first. Through the thin walls, I'd heard fragments of his voice, low and measured, telling them what they needed to hear. He was protecting me. Even now, even after everything, he was still protecting me.
When they brought me in, I knew exactly what story I needed to tell.
"Mrs. Stone," Detective Martinez said, settling into the chair across from me. She was the same woman from my two times at the station. Same misogyny princess. I wondered what game she would try to pull. "I know this is difficult, but we need to understand what happened in that house."
