A Case in Two

Click.

The steel door swung wide open. Scraping against the concrete floor, screaming at the arrival of the man I had been waiting to see all morning.

Every week. Every Sunday for the past 5 weeks. Like clockwork.

“Morning Ms. Ewan, having a nice time?”

His glossy hair, tailored suit, and silver watch didn’t belong here. A county lockup, in a town too far from anywhere to be recognisable. Nothing to a high street detective like him.

“As nice as you can have in a lockup like this.”

I gesture vaguely to the jagged concrete walls, the buzzing fluorescents. “Love what they did with the place.”

He began chuckling. Descending onto the chair across me, his hands scurrying into his briefcase. Like he was in a rush.

“Really spruces up the place don’t you agree?”

No reply.

That was probably the most I had spoken in the past week. The lockup doesn’t invite conversation, even despite my embarrassing attempts at it. Either way, I wouldn’t be able to talk about what I wanted to.

There’s a cold steel table between us. A pair of identical chairs. We don’t call it an interrogation anymore. It’s more like a visit. A group project.

He asks questions, I give answers. He gets stuck somewhere, I pull him out.

“Do you recall the case of Ruth Dorethy?”

I almost smile.

“Twenty-six. Artist. Found dead in an exhibition bathroom. Petechiae in the eyes, bruising around the neck.”

I fold my hands like a schoolteacher. “We landed on strangulation as the cause of death as far as I remember.”

He hates it when I get ahead of the script. In my defence, what else could I think about it in a place as boring as this.

A silence hangs between us; dense, crawling. The hum of the lights, the drag of his breath, the tiny crack in the plastic arm of my chair all echoed across the room.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says flatly.

“I’m enduring it. This case was done a week ago, what’s next?”

His jaw clenched hard. He closes the file, leans forward. “I don’t think it is.”

Something was different. The man who came weeks before was witty, smiling. He’d banter back and forth, make conversation. He was a friend.

The person across from me was… distant.

“You have a history of promiscuity, don’t you?”

I blink.

“What kind of question is that?” I keep my voice dry, measured.

“Stick to the case or crawl back to whoever’s pulling your leash.”

It was rude, I lashed out. He knows I don’t like being talked to like that. Maybe it was a mistake.

But something flickers in his eyes, not anger, not offense. Something slower.

“I assure you, it’s relevant.”

He flips the file open again; papers I’ve seen a dozen times. Scribbled notes, blurry photos. Lists with lines scratched through them. Some photos seemed misplaced, in the wrong section, connected with the wrong people.

Did he change the files?

“You called Ruth Dorethy a ‘spotlight addict’ didn’t you?”

He didn’t make eye contact. Just stared down, with his hands clasped together on the table. “You refer to her as such every time we get into discussions about her.”

What was happening? Where was he going? My mind raced, eyes twitching ever so lightly. I could feel my stomach slowly drop. I felt threatened.

“Well I- yes. Extravagant displays, cutting people off. She’s made a lot of jealous enemies in her career.”

He nodded his head in disapproval. He closed his eyes for a second, which seemed like ages for me. I could feel something bad coming. I knew it was. I just didn’t know what.

“She stole someone you cared about… you knew each other.”

“That was off the record.” I said too quickly. My throat felt dry. “How does this relate to the case John?”

“It relates, because we got video footage from the exhibition this week…”

His words were so soft, warm. The only warmth in this entire room. I almost miss it.

And then his voice rises like a match to dry grass.

“You did it. WHY?”

He threw his chair to the ground, the table rattling under his fists. My spine locks up, nails digging into my chair.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink. My body trembled like it knew something I didn’t. Like being pulled underwater by something I can’t see.

“Do you have. A history. Of promiscuity, Ms Ewan?” He slammed his hands on the table again.

A knot formed in my throat, tears swelled in my eyes. I try to speak but the words get caught just before they come out.

“Yes- But. But that’s not–”

“Black dress. Golden ribbon-bow. Silver bracelet,” he recites, like a prayer turned accusation. “You were there.”

“I was– I was across town. How could I have been there?”

He slides over a page I’ve never seen.

A still frame from a grainy camera feed. Static crawling over the image. A woman, hands raised mid-motion, stumbling from a door. Her mouth open. Her eyes wild.

Ruth.

Behind her? Blurry but unmistakable, a woman with blonde hair, a black dress.

My height. My gait. My—

My hands.

I don’t speak.

The scream, stuck in my chest, was raw and frozen.

I wasn’t there.

I know I wasn’t.

I… wasn’t…

was I?

And then.

Click.

I barely noticed the door opening. Same sound. Same voice. This time warm, and soft.

“Morning, Ms Ewan. Having a nice time?”

I blink.

He was just here.

“As nice as you can have in a lockup like this.” I say again.

My voice felt automated. Practiced.

“Love what they did with the place,” I add.

He chuckles, opens his briefcase and pulls out the file.

“Recall the case of Ruth Dorethy?”

I brace myself.

For the still frame.

Help…