The holding room smelled like disinfectant and old coffee.
Noah stood just outside the glass, arms crossed, watching Evan sit alone at the metal table. Evan's posture was calm—too calm—but his fingers betrayed him. They tapped once, stopped, then pressed flat against the surface as if grounding himself.
He hadn't asked for a lawyer.
That alone unsettled Noah.
"You still sure about this?" Rhea Morgan asked quietly beside him, tablet tucked under her arm.
Noah didn't look away. "About questioning him? Yes."
"About letting him breathe freely in this building?" she corrected. "Not so much."
Evan shifted in his seat. His gaze lifted—straight to the glass.
For a split second, Noah felt exposed.
"He's watching us," Rhea muttered. "See that? He knows."
"No," Noah said, though his voice lacked conviction. "He's just observant."
"Or guilty."
Noah exhaled and opened the door.
The air inside felt heavier.
Evan looked up immediately. His eyes darted—not to Noah's face, but to the corner of the room. The camera.
Noah noticed.
"You checking who's watching?" Noah asked, sitting across from him.
Evan hesitated.
Just a fraction too long.
"…Yes."
That was new.
"You didn't care before," Noah said calmly. "Now you do."
Evan's jaw tightened. "Before, I wasn't sure."
"Sure of what?"
"That I was being observed."
The room went still.
Noah leaned back. "By whom?"
Evan swallowed. His Adam's apple bobbed. "I don't know."
Rhea's voice came sharply through the intercom. "Convenient."
Evan flinched at the sound.
That, too, was new.
Noah leaned forward again. "You said the intent started an hour ago."
"Yes."
"You said the victim lives alone."
"Yes."
"And you said strangulation."
"Yes."
Noah slid a photo across the table—the previous victim's autopsy report.
"You didn't mention blunt force trauma last time. Why?"
Evan stared at the photo.
His breathing changed.
"That… wasn't what was loudest," he said slowly.
"Meaning?"
"The decision was louder than the method."
Noah's fingers curled. "You're telling me you pick and choose what to say?"
"I tell you what I can survive saying."
That answer chilled the room.
"What happens if you say too much?" Noah asked.
Evan looked up—eyes glassy now, unfocused.
"I get punished."
Rhea swore under her breath.
Noah's heart skipped. "By who?"
Evan shook his head sharply, as if clearing something. "I— I don't know. I never see them."
"But you feel them," Noah pressed.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Officer Liam Cross shifted outside the door, unease written all over his face.
Noah lowered his voice. "Evan… are you sure you're not involved?"
For the first time since meeting him—
Evan looked genuinely afraid.
"I ask myself that every day," he whispered. "If I am the killer… then why do I feel like the next victim?"
Noah's chest tightened.
"That doesn't make sense," Rhea snapped through the intercom. "Killers don't fear themselves."
Evan's head snapped toward the speaker. "Then why am I still alive?"
The words landed like a slap.
Noah stood abruptly.
"Enough," he said. "We're checking West Third. Now."
Rhea protested. "Noah—"
"If he's lying," Noah cut in, eyes locked on Evan, "I'll bring him back in cuffs. If he's not… we stop a murder."
Evan rose slowly, hands visible.
As they walked him out, Evan leaned closer, voice barely audible.
"You think I'm manipulating you," he said.
Noah didn't deny it.
Evan's lips trembled. "I wish I were."
For a moment—just a moment—Noah wondered:
What if Evan isn't confessing murders?
That left Noah standing at the edge of a choice he didn't know how to make.
And somewhere, unseen, someone was already smiling.