The room Matthew chose for the interrogation was deliberately unremarkable.
No windows. No mirrors. No tools laid out to intimidate. Just a single table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a light that hummed faintly overhead. The kind of place where the mind did most of the breaking on its own.
Jared sat on one side of the table, wrists cuffed, shoulders slumped. He looked smaller than he had any right to—smaller than the man who had terrorized a household, smaller than the shadow he'd cast over his own son. His clothes were stained, his face drawn tight with exhaustion and something close to panic.
Matthew stood across from him, not sitting.
He never sat during interrogations.
"You know why you're here," Matthew said calmly.
Jared swallowed. His throat bobbed. "I figured… yeah."
Matthew leaned his palms on the table, just enough pressure to make the metal creak. "Then we'll skip the part where you lie to me about being innocent."
