The room tilted violently.
My knees gave out.
“No…” I breathed. “That’s not true…”
But it was already too late.
The cuffs locked around my wrists—cold, final, inescapable.
“It wasn’t me,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, my voice breaking at the edges. “I never hurt him. I didn’t hurt anyone!”
The interrogation room felt colder under the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing above us, the sound drilling into my skull as if it was trying to wear me down. My wrists were still sore from the cuffs, and my throat felt raw from shouting the same truth over and over. Across the metal table, two officers watched me with the same blank, unreadable faces.
“Mrs. Grant,” one of them said in a measured tone, “multiple witnesses say you physically pushed the child. The findings we have—”
“I didn’t!” My voice cracked mid-sentence. “It wasn’t like that. It was an accident. Matteo—he was there—he saw it—”
The door suddenly opened.
My head snapped up instantly, relief rushing through me for half a second because I thought it was my lawyer.
But it wasn’t.
Matteo walked in instead.