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Maggie's lips curled into a sneer."I prefer to stand."
"Then I'll sit." Finnmoved to claim the metal chair across from her, its legs scraping against thelinoleum in protest. Amelia followed suit, her presence beside him bothreassuring and unsettling, for he could feel the weight of her gaze on him,heavy with unspoken worry.
He could almost hear the cogsturning in her head, the way they might have in one of the mechanicalcontraptions from the past they were so used to piecing together—calculating,deducing, searching for the truth beneath the rust. But today, the machine inquestion was himself, and Finn wasn't sure he welcomed the scrutiny.
Finn leaned forward, elbows restingon the cold metal table, his gaze locked onto Maggie Beckett's defiant stance.Shadows danced across her features, etched by the harsh overhead light."Ms. Beckett," he began, his voice carrying a razor-sharp edge,"are you acquainted with a Mr. Rajiv Choudhary?"
Her eyes narrowed, a flicker ofconfusion betraying her otherwise unyielding facade. "Why do youask?" she countered, her tone laced with caution.
"Because," Ameliainterjected, her words steady and clinical, "your fingerprints were foundon the gun that ended his life."
Maggie's complexion paled, a starkcontrast to the rich tapestries that hung behind her in the interrogationroom—a touch of old-world charm in a sterile environment. "That'simpossible," she gasped, her shock seeming to splinter the armor she hadso meticulously crafted.
"Is it now?" Finnpressed, skeptically arching an eyebrow. "If you're as innocent as youclaim, why did you run when we found you?"
Her lips parted, hesitating for asplit second before the truth—or what appeared to be the truth—spilled out."I've got a friend—she’s undocumented—living with me. I thought... Ithought you were after her, not me." Her voice wavered slightly, humanizingthe statue of defiance she presented. "So I led you on a wild goose chaseinstead."
Amelia slid the evidence bag acrossthe table with a practiced motion, its contents glinting under the harshfluorescent light. The antique gun, an incongruous blend of old-worldcraftsmanship and modern violence, lay within, accusingly still.
"Recognize this?" sheasked, her voice devoid of inflection yet carrying the weight of implication.
Maggie Beckett's gaze fixed on thebag, her eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through the plastic and reclaima piece of her past. "It's from my shop," she said evenly, her tonesuggesting a mundane connection to an otherwise lethal object.
"Your prints are all overit," Finn interjected, watching Maggie closely. He knew the stress ofinterrogation often cracked the hardest facades. Hers was polished but notimpenetrable.
"Of course, they are. I handleeverything in there." Maggie's chin tilted up defiantly. "I can showyou receipts, inventory lists. That gun was logged."
"Can you now?" Ameliaprodded, raising an eyebrow.
"Absolutely." Despite thegravity of the situation, Maggie's response bordered on nonchalant. She satback in her chair, arms crossed, a silent dare for them to challenge herfurther.
Finn felt a bead of irritation format the base of his skull, a mixture of fatigue from too many late nights andthe nagging doubt that had lodged itself there since the arrest. He leanedforward, his hands flat on the table, eyes locked onto Maggie's. "Whatabout Max Vilne? Know him?"
"Never heard of him,"Maggie replied, her facade uncracked.
Heat flushed Finn's face; he couldfeel Amelia's cautionary glance like a physical touch, urging restraint. Butrestraint was a luxury they couldn't afford—not with a killer whose identityslipped through their fingers like smoke.
"Easy, Finn," Ameliawhispered beside him, her words barely audible.
Finn produced a photograph from thefile and placed it before Maggie. The image of Max Vilne was grainy, capturedfrom a distance, but unmistakably the man Finn believed was the puppeteerbehind the chaos.
"Look again," Finnpressed, his voice harder than intended. "He might've been the one whobought that gun from you."
Recognition flickered acrossMaggie's features, a crack in her composure that widened just enough to let thetruth seep out. "Him..." she breathed, a reluctant admission."Yes, he bought the gun. Came into the shop couple weeks back, paid cash."
Finn's pulse quickened as pieces ofthe puzzle began to align, forming a picture that was as disturbing as it wasincomplete. Max Vilne's shadow loomed large over the investigation, a specterFinn couldn't shake. And as much as he wanted to chase down that lead,exhaustion clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to underminehis focus.
"Paid cash, you say?"Amelia jotted down notes, her pen scratching against paper in rhythmic bursts."Interesting. Very few people deal in cash these days, especially forhigh-value items."
"Old habits die hard,"Maggie quipped, but the lightheartedness didn't quite reach her eyes.
The room seemed to shrink, thewalls pressing in as the significance of Maggie's recognition settled over themlike a dense fog.
Finn's mind raced as he leanedforward, elbows on the table, scrutinizing Maggie Beckett with an intensitythat belied his weariness. "The 19th and 21st of January," he began,voice steady but eyes unyielding, "where were you?"
Maggie shifted, her posture rigid,defiance etched into her features despite the vulnerability in her voice."I was with a friend," she offered hesitantly, a tremor betraying herotherwise firm resolve. "Please, I can't—she's here without papers."The plea hung heavy in the room, a silent testament to her desperation.
"Without your friend steppingforward," Finn cautioned, standing up and pushing the chair back with ascrape that echoed off the sterile walls, "It doesn't look good for you,Maggie." His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, searching forsome flicker of deceit or honesty before turning to leave.
