This was the second time I was coming to the police department in Luxford City, and I hated it.
The smell of stale coffee and fear, maybe, or just the accumulated stress of hundreds of people who'd passed through these doors.
I walked up to the front desk, my legs shaking. "I'm here to see Detective Grant. He called me about Reese Martinez."
The officer at the desk—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes—checked her computer. "Name?"
"Naya Rivers."
She picked up a phone and spoke quietly into it. Then she gestured to a row of plastic chairs against the wall. "Someone will be with you shortly."
I sat down and immediately stood back up. I couldn't sit still because my mind was racing through terrible scenarios.
Five minutes felt like an hour. Finally, a man in his late forties appeared. He wore a wrinkled suit and surprisingly had kind eyes.
"Miss Rivers? I'm Detective Grant. Thank you for coming in." He extended his hand, and I shook it mechanically. "Follow me, please."
