On your lunch break that Tuesday, two days after you and Angela had agreed on her mock interrogating you to see what it was like in lieu of you sitting in on an actual interrogation of hers, you found yourself walking into the stark Mid-Wilshire LAPD division, your stomach fluttering with excitement and curiosity. The walls, painted institutional gray, retained the faint scent of strong coffee and stale paper. You out of place in my casual attire, a stark contrast to the dark uniforms that filled the room, but Angela’s infectious confidence quelled your nerves.

There she was, leaning against a desk, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her badge shimmered under the fluorescent lights, and she looked every bit the part of a seasoned detective who had seen too much. When she spotted you, her face broke into an amused grin.

“Ready to spill your secrets?” she teased, motioning you into an interrogation room—the walls adorned with whiteboards filled with scribbled notes and half-erased plans. She was in her element.