Almost.
Then she remembered the file photos.
The young man who lost six months of his life because a baggie “appeared” under his passenger seat.
The grandmother arrested after officers “found” pills in a medicine bottle that had never been hers.
The teenage mechanic who took a plea because his mother couldn’t afford bail.
The veteran who lost his job, then his home, because a dirty search became a dirty charge and nobody cared enough to ask how convenient the evidence looked.
Claire had carried those faces for two years on this case.
Tonight was not personal because they had come into her home.
Tonight was personal because she knew how many homes they had already destroyed.
They took her down a hallway to Interview Room Three.
Gray walls.
Bolted metal table.
Two chairs.
One camera in the corner.
Same tired setup as a thousand other small-town departments that told themselves they were the good guys no matter what happened inside those walls.
