Hendricks had put a finger to his lips. “We’re going to leave you to think about it. Long or short. It will be up to you. Tell the truth, this will be short and painless. Lie to us and you will hurt for a long, long time. Understand?”

Tate had said nothing.

“Understand?” Hendricks had bellowed.

Tate had nodded, his head lolling weakly to the side.

“Good,” Hendricks had said. “So, we’re going to leave you to think about it. In the meantime, my partner and I are going to go have dinner. Rest up for you. When we come back, you’re going to tell us all about Suzanne Lombard. Or I’m going to make a mess of you.” Hendricks had said it flatly. Matter-of-factly, like he was choosing between two light beers.

Hendricks had nodded to Jenn, and they’d left Tate dangling in his cell. Tate had yelled after them and kept yelling long after they had slammed shut the locker’s rollaway door.

“Who?” he’d cried repeatedly. “I don’t know no Suzanne! I don’t. Who the fuck is Suzanne Lombard, man? I don’t know her.”

And on and on.

Jenn actually preferred the speed metal to the sound of Tate’s voice. He was so compelling. So sincere and blameless. It would have made her heart ache if she hadn’t seen this act many times before. An interrogation room was the greatest acting school ever devised. They clung to the lie like a life jacket. So convincing that she wondered sometimes if they actually convinced themselves of their own innocence. In the long run, it never made any difference. The only variable was how long it would take him to realize the same thing. She checked her watch and hit a button on her console. Tate’s cell was engulfed in searing white light. His body recoiled, and his mouth stretched into a scream as if the light itself burned.

The music played on.

Jenn and Hendricks stepped out of Tate’s cell and into the sunshine. Jenn pulled the rollaway door down. They stripped out of their jumpsuits and ski masks. It was foul in there, and they were both bathed in sweat. She watched Hendricks walk away in his boxers and Doc Martens to light a cigarette. In her shorts and sports bra, she was in no position to complain. They were way past social niceties.

She went back to their command post and fished four bottles of water out of a cooler. She found a spot in the shade, put her back against a wall, and slid down to the ground. When Hendricks came back, she handed him a bottle.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Fuck the time, what day is it?”

He fished his phone out of his gear and held it up to her face.

“When did it get to be Thursday?” she asked.