"You're staying right here," Francis hissed through gritted teeth, his calloused fingers wrapping around your forearm.

He wasn't going to allow you to speak with the man in the interrogation room. He couldn't. The killer had murdered your parents only a few days ago, and you, known for your stubbornness, were demanding to see the guy. Francis was no fool; he knew you were suffering inside.

"This is my job, not yours," he added, resting his forehead against yours.