The detective points to the white knife on her desk.
I don’t know what to answer. Everything she said is true but…
“It’s not the full story.”
The detective rolls her eyes. I doubt this is what she had in mind when she signed up to be a detective — sitting in a musty office with no windows, on a swivel chair with the stuffing popping through, hearing people like me share our stories. The gun on her hip — how many times does she actually draw it? She was expecting drama, and all I have is a sad tale.
But she’s typing as I talk, with every word going on the record, so I want the right story to be written in my name.
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