Boston's Man-Eater

XIX

The following morning as the sun arose from a blaze of deep pink and yellow, a knock came from my door.

I stopped work preparations and gazed at it doubtfully.

Swinging it open, my eyebrows shot up when I met Detective Francis.

"Good morning, Mr. Anthony."

"Good morning, Detective," I greeted, my gut internally screaming at me.

Don't panic

"I need you to come down to the police headquarters for questioning pertaining to Derek Harris' death."

"Let me just get my things."

I'm obviously a suspect. How can't I be?

When I retrieved my laptop and gear, I locked the door of my apartment and followed her down the stairs.

"Am I coming with you or..."

"You can just follow if you have a car."

It was a cool morning. The air was cold and crisp to breathe, clearly matching the kind of uncertainties I didn't want to face after the questioning.

And I had just enough time to convince myself that maybe I did kill Derek.

The mind is a dangerous tool.

Obediently following the detective's silver Hyundai, my mind became a pandemonium, logic drowning in a deep pool of what if's.

What if they put me on a lie detector and I'll somehow fail?

I shook my head to rid it of all the absurdities, and we arrived at the headquarters.

Of course, it was busy—filled to the brim with overworking employees, their voices and ringing telephones echoing around.

We walked past the administration area, and entered a secluded corridor with chairs lined against one wall, and large windows on the opposite.

She told me to sit and I waited, rocking back and forth with my foot tapping the ceramic.

Who else is being questioned?

After what seemed like an eternity, one of the doors flew open and the other detective exited with exhaustion.

I took my cue to stand up, and Tess walked out with faraway eyes.

Does she ever give high-heels a break?

"Hey," I greeted, and she graced me with a slow smile.

"Kyle Anthony," the detective called and I nodded to him, entering the room with a steel table and chairs.

Detective Francis was already seated at one side, and he joined her before motioning for me to sit down.

"Good morning, Kyle," he fiddled with a recorder.

"Good morning." I gulped—How unnecessarily suspicious.

"I understand that you know why you're here."

"Yes."

"We're going to be recording this interview. Do you have anything you'd like to say before we begin?"

His stare was so pointed, almost as if he was trying to extract something out of me.

"No."

"Okay."

"This is Detective Prescott and Detective Francis questioning Kyle Anthony on 1 October 2018. The time is 0800 hours," he said into the recorder, and laced his fingers in front of him as I mimicked.