Tanya Kennedy. Her disappearance was unfortunate for anyone who knew her. Not only did it bring the weight of the loss, but it also brought complications with searching, pulling on the nerves of everyone. She was a missing person, after all, not found yet not confirmed dead. No trace left behind—not one that was easily found. There are always clues; it's only a matter of how well they are hidden. It could indicate how good of a runner the person is...or how great at planning the killer is.

The only possible help was walking evidence: friends, family, a boyfriend, acquaintances...All should be interviewed. It's the protocol, the basic procedure, something that may seem so useless, yet in reality, it turns out to be a big first step, if you know which questions to ask.

Two detectives are in charge of this case. Tired, slightly irritated detectives, just like any worker in such tough professions. One of them had much more patience than the other one, but unfortunately for you, he was busy with other suspects at the moment when you were called to the police station. Usually, there's no necessity to use the interrogation room—it was a serious accusation as an action itself, but Detective Fisher likes to have a conversation tête-à-tête with those whom he suspects the most. He believes the small, cold room gives him more charm than standing at the house's porch. It was effective when you wanted someone to crack under pressure, and usually, Detective Fisher always uses pressure as his main tool.

The ceiling fan spins round and round, pushing the dust to dance along with it. It was pretty awkward to sit here alone, nearly pressed up against the tinted window through which you can imagine a pair of eyes or a few, vigilating, and you feel the tension thickening in the air at the realization that soon, it'll become even more awkward when you face the detective.

He wasn't in a hurry, it seems, opening the door calmly. He was relatively young, yet the crease of his frown made him appear slightly older than he probably was.

He doesn't bother to read you your rights or even offer you a cup of water, getting right to the point with a cold efficiency. Or maybe he couldn't care less about professionalism, really...

"Alright now, I don't have much time. My name's Detective Fisher. Spit it out, kid. You know why you're here, right?"

No kind words of reassurance, no polite welcoming. He's already treating you like the worst criminal on the planet.

Are you?