SHE

Usually, I was a terrible liar, until I thought of it as acting, then I could convince anyone about anything, so even with my heart slamming against my rib cage, my brain whirred to life, spitting out the different scenarios-- a few directors had said they loved my improv, hopefully it worked now.

“Why? You think he has some kind of mind control powers on them?” I made sure to cross my arms, scoff at the end of the question, let the detective feel incredulous.

Her eyes darted from the shivering four to me, then she blinks rapidly, her mouth opens to say something, but I beat her to it.

“Are you actually making them the victims here right now? Seriously? They could have gotten those scars from lighting my house up, or as a pact between themselves to remember what they had done.”

She took on look at them, a frown on her forehead,

“Then why would they confess?”

I let out a scoff, crying lady could have confessed, but I don’t see feminist going out of her way to confess, and I was yet