“Mr. Curio, I don’t have time for games. I know you think you have a friend on the other side of the mirror, but you don’t. The person watching this interview is my boss. Notice how he didn’t burst into the room a few minutes ago? That’s because you don’t mean shit to him. So, let’s get to the point. I know that you sell crappy weed out of your grandmother’s house in East Point. I know that there are warrants for your arrest in Gwinnett County, Fulton County, and Coweta County. I know that you find cars for sale on Craigslist then stick up their owners and go back to Craigslist to sell those cars. We’ve actually been monitoring you for a few months, so I’m quite familiar with who you are, Eric Sims. Did you really think that your idiotic hustle was going unwatched? You’ve been stealing Benzes and Lexuses in a city where people spend more money on their cars than their educations.”

He stared back at her, his eyes suddenly alert. Tilly continued.

“You were doing fine with Camrys—we bought a few from you—but you just had to level up. Well, this is the next level. You can stay here with me, in an FBI interrogation room, face-to-face with the lead investigator on your stupid, worthless case, or you can answer my questions, never see me again, and steal as many shitty Camrys as you want. The choice is yours, Eric.” Tilly clicked on the recorder, easing back into her chair and looking forward to loosening her taut ponytail when she got back to her office.

Sims glared at her, malice overtaking his manicured face, his facade melting away. Tilly pointed at the recorder, and Sims sighed, his resignation drifting through the cramped room.

“The kid pulled up in a blue Civic, an old model, like ’98 or ’99. The car had two broads in it. One had mad red hair. Like Rihanna red, you know what I mean?”

Tilly nodded.

“The other looked kind of rough, like she would beat a bitch with a bottle, not because a bottle was nearby, but because she carried a bottle for beating bitches. She was dark-skinned. There was a MINI parked in front of the Civic. It was black.”

“What states were the license plates from?”

“You really lucked out, huh? Fucking with a car thief.”

Tilly’s arms flung into the air, gesticulating wildly at the recorder. Five months monitoring this fool and she still hadn’t fathomed the depth of his idiocy.

“I mean, they looked like car thieves, you know. Very fast and furious. Very, uh, multicultural? But anyway, they were both from Georgia. The MINI was from Clayton, and the Civic was from Cobb. They were probably stolen, though, so I don’t know if that means anything.” Thrilled to have finally caught on, he winked.