The silence in the interrogation room was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent lights. Maria De Vega, or 'Anne' as she insisted, sat across from me, her dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that could melt steel. Her curly hair, usually a wild halo, was flattened slightly, probably from leaning against the grimy wall of the holding cell. She was small, even for a woman, and her sour expression made her look perpetually annoyed, as if the world owed her a perpetual apology.

“Ms. De Vega—” I started, but her glare cut me off. Right, no last names. “It’s Anne,” she bit out, her voice raspy, a familiar edge of defiance in her tone. “And you still get to call me Detective Crook?” I countered, a slight smirk playing on my lips. It was a dance we knew well. “Get to the point, detective,” she snapped, her eyes darting towards the clock on the wall. “I need to get back to the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The 'Bloody Barbies.' Maria’s grim nickname for the recent string of murders. Each victim a man, each scene painted red, and each with a doll – not a Barbie, but a doll – left behind, no less than three feet from the body. It was the fourth time this month she’d been brought in. The department, especially Pete, who was now himself a victim, had a fixation on her. A mechanic, a 'vagrant' in her district, and with a reputation for a short fuse, she was an easy target for suspicion. I knew she wasn’t the killer, but the brass didn’t. And Anne? She knew I knew. That just made it worse.