Keeping her eye on George, Tilly reviewed the case details, preparing her interview questions. It had taken her years, but she’d finally learned to stop treating interviews as open-ended. There were benefits to allowing the interviewee to get comfortable, to gradually drop their defense and answer honestly. But you only got glimpses when you watched someone voluntarily disarm. If you wanted an unobstructed view of the fiber of their fabric, you had to confront them in full armor, scanning for the chinks that were guarded most carefully. “A point guard that never shoots probably has a bad shot,” Tilly’s high school basketball coach used to say.

George dribbled his fingers on the table as Tilly walked into the room. “About fucking time. I come here to do my city a favor, and you act like you’re doing me a favor, strolling in all casual and shit with your damn blond highlights and modern pantsuit. Bitch, you ain’t Keri Hilson.”

Tilly seated herself without responding. Voluntary leads always overvalued themselves, lashing out so they could glean their actual value. If they were immediately scolded, they knew they had overshot it and quickly simmered down; if they were received warmly, they knew they had guessed just right and began to state their terms. They never accounted for indifference, though. Tilly scribbled out her questions as George stared at her, bewildered, sweat visibly pooling in the folds of his neck and continuing to drip onto the table.

After completing her list of questions, Tilly clicked her pen shut and observed George directly, remaining silent. He avoided her gaze, his eyes limply falling to the table.

“I didn’t do shit. I swear,” he eventually stuttered out. “I met the kid on Craigslist in May. Never met him before that. I promised him a van I had boosted, and on the night in question, I met up with him and sold it to him in person, cash. That’s it. See how honest I’m being? I admit that I boosted the van.” Tilly stared back at him.

“Are you even listening to me? You come in here scribbling shit, but I’m giving you everything you need to know, and your pen is lying on the table like a fucking paperweight. Are you an agent or a fucking secretary?”

Tilly jerked forward, lunging at George from across the table like an outfielder fetching a fly ball. She seized George’s lumpy neck, grasping it tightly, his milky sweat coating her palms. “What do you think?” she responded, watching the color evaporate from his face. His hands desperately slithered around her taut forearm, pleading for mercy.

Tilly squeezed tighter, his pulse resounding through her wrists like a frenzied drumbeat. His hands moved more wildly, his dull fingernails scrabbling to break her skin, her concentration, anything.

Tilly held tight, invigorated by her anger. There was a palpable pleasure in his raw desperation, his supplicating eyes. She gripped tighter.