If I could pull the metal chair from its bolts, I could drag it to the desk and use my teeth to open the drawers to rummage through the office supplies. I’d always been fond of office supplies and had liberated many pens and notepads during my years of temp work; office supplies should repay the favor and liberate me.

I was yanking my arms upward to test the cuffs when I heard the sssh-sssh of corduroy and squeak of crepe-soled shoes. My interrogator walked to the desk and sat on it.

The others called him the Professor, and he had that neglected look of abstracted academics. His shaggy graying hair was unbrushed, and he wore a misbuttoned argyle sweater. He placed a thick manila file on the desk and opened it.

“Here we are again,” he said flatly.

“I assure you that I wouldn’t continue to bore you if I had a choice,” I said. “Why not let me go?”

When the Professor looked at me, I saw impatience in his hazel eyes. He said, “Your resistance is unreasonable and exasperating. You know we won’t consider releasing you until you tell us who you are and why you killed Ford and Cricket Poindexter, yet you continue to whine about it.”

“I’ve told you what I can. There’s no more I can say.”

“There’s no more you will say. Try to be precise.”

“I heard a scream. I went to see what it was. I came across the accidents. Please note that I am once again demanding my right to speak to my attorney. Kidnapping and confinement is a felony.”

“Only when humans are involved, not creatures. But the law is a distraction,” he said with a frown. “You were carried away in your bloodlust. Things got out of control—all that blood and you couldn’t help yourself since you’re a vampire, after all.”

“There’s no such thing as vampires.”

He stood up and reached for a button on the wall. The blinds opened and light flooded in. It was day. How long had I been here? I blinked to adjust my eyes.

My interrogator was staring at me. “Aren’t you afraid of the sun?”

“I’m totally freaked out about global warming.”

He leaned over the desk and banged on it, a man of thought being reduced to physical acts. “Here are the facts. Fact: Ford Poindexter called nine-one-one and said that a vampire had killed his wife, Cricket. Fact: the call ended abruptly. Fact: you were discovered at the scene, covered in blood, with blood on your mouth, by the bodies of the Poindexters. Fact: Ford’s phone had been crushed.”

I was too exhausted to cry anymore for poor Ford and Cricket Poindexter. “I’m sorry, but I’ve told you all I can. I came across the first accident and witnessed the second.”