“She can stay.” Kroll’s voice popped in just in time to save her. A Black woman in a suit and a pair of sunglasses strode in behind her, whose presence was so overwhelming the small space immediately seemed tighter. “This is agent Tasha Williams, agent, Sergeant Max Sweeney and Officer Tina Kennard.”

The FBI agent only bade them a nod, and stood then stood in front of the window.

Max squinted at her unpleasantly. He found her condescending manner utterly rude. Just as he wanted to say something, maybe a little sarcasm, he caught Kroll’s eyes and instantly kept his mouth shut.

It was some awkward minutes, Kroll tapped her finger impatiently, Sweeney chuckled foolishly to spare himself the strangeness, even agent Williams glanced at her companions several times in a kind of endearing but antisocial way, as if she shared the sentiment. Only Tina, she wasn’t amused or embarrassed, or whatever the hell Tasha Williams was feeling. She was dying inside and rapidly. Her heart was beating in the base of her throat loudly as if it would leap free. The anxiety was insufferable, one second going all too fast, the next lasting an eternity.

The door slid open. Tina felt her breath had ceased. She watched in wide eye as two men in suits escorted the suspect inside. A shriek arrived at her voice cord but she swallowed it back. Her whole body shook.

The woman was shoved forward in handcuffs, tall, slim, dark brown hair tucked loosely in a pony tail.

“Bette.” She whimpered silently.

While Kroll and Sweeney fixed their eyes on the scene in the interrogation room, Tasha Williams noticed how the young officer reacted and took great interest in it.

Tina was well aware of the elephant in the room. She tried several deep inhales to behave normal. A quick glance was spared to the FBI agent, but her attention quickly returned to the woman on the other side of the mirror, her sudden rush of relief replaced by anger.

There was a nasty gash on the brunette woman’s nose, a diagonal pattern lodged from a little under her brow to the other cheekbone. Another bruise had turned an ugly yellow on her chin. Bette was limping and leaning against the man on her left, one shoulder in a strap as if it had been dislocated, and the exposed area on her chest showed an uneven patch that resembled a burn mark. She winced as agent Robinson pushed her to sit on the chair, then groaned when they unlocked her handcuff only to pull her hands to the front and lock her up again. A bead of painful sweat glided across her paling face.