Maybe he’s implying that Chives is better at this sort of thing? It’s true. Her partner knows how to ask baseline questions, how to read eye activity and facial expressions and body language, how to interrupt denials, how to keep the suspect’s attention, when to offer sodas and treats. He’ll even go so far as to touch a hand or a shoulder. He’s the good cop who earns their trust. She’s the bad cop who machine-guns them with questions and doesn’t offer tissues when they cry.

But Nora is good at what she does. She’s broken down plenty of suspects before Chives can even crack open a Coke and set a doughnut on a napkin for them. This suspect isn’t requesting counsel, so they need to get her talking while she’s still fresh, muddled, and without a lawyer.

Nora steps into the room. The light is low, the temperature meat-locker cold, the color gray except for the blue stripe bordering the walls. The woman—her name is Ashley Harlow—is seated on the opposite side of the table. She might be five foot five and weighs maybe a hundred pounds, and the orange jumpsuit fits her like a collapsed tent. White-girl dreads. Hemp necklace. Tribal plugs in her ears. Her fingernails are bitten down to bloody nubs. Her hands are cuffed and linked to the bolt on the table.

Usually this is when the suspect makes some smart-ass remark about Nora’s gender, her race, or her mask, trying to unsettle her and make a desperate grab for power. But Ashley doesn’t look up when Nora enters the room, or when she pulls up a chair, or when she clears her throat and introduces herself. It’s as though neither of them is there.

Ashley sways in her chair. Her eyes are wide open but far away, the pupils dilated, possibly indicating methamphetamines, mescaline, ecstasy, cocaine. But she has no scabs on her arms and her nostrils aren’t raw, so who knows. She whispers under her breath in a way that sounds like someone penciling something swift and sinister.

“Ashley,” Nora says. “Ashley?” Again and again and again, with no reply: “Ashley?”

Nora tries variations on “Did you love him?” and “Did he hurt you?” and “Maybe you were acting in self-defense?” Anything to provoke a response. “You don’t have any priors except a DUI from five years ago,” she says. “I see you’re originally from Medford, Oregon. What brought you here?” she says. “I hear people can be pretty protective and even violent about their plots when mushroom hunting,” she says. “I hear it’s its own little industry. I hear that since the drought has shorted supplies, morels are going for thirty a pound at some of the high-end restaurants? That right? Was this about money?”

Nothing hits. Nothing works.