The detective began to quiz the suspect.
Detective Harris leaned across the cold steel table, his notebook open but his eyes fixed firmly on the man in the chair. “Where were you at 9 p.m.?” he asked, his voice calm but sharp, like a scalpel.
The suspect, a wiry man with nervous hands, twisted a ring on his finger. “Home. Watching TV,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact.
Harris scribbled a note. “Funny. Your neighbor says she saw you leave with a duffel bag around that time.”
The man’s jaw tightened. “She’s lying. She hates me.”
Harris smiled faintly. “Maybe. But the bag turned up behind the diner, soaked in gasoline. And guess whose fingerprints are on the lighter inside?”
Silence filled the room. The suspect’s face paled. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tapped the table with trembling fingers.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far. I just wanted to scare him.”
Harris leaned back, letting the words settle. Confession always came in fragments, and this one was cracking open.
“Start from the beginning,” the detective said softly, sliding the recorder closer. “This time, tell me the truth.”
Therapy Bits 
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