The metal on the back of the chair is like a sheet of ice through my blouse. The small, brightly lit room with a large mirror on one of the walls reminds me of a scene from an episode of some trendy legal drama.

"Let me see your hands." The woman in an expensive-looking tailored pantsuit leans over the small table between us and slides an empty tray under my lifted palms. "If you want to make an official confession we'll need an official written statement. Need me to contact your lawyer?" The look on her face is nearly expressionless except for the slight look of exhaustion in her puffy eyelids.

"No." I lift my hands and allow her to scrape the dirt from my palms and into the container, and take samples from under my nails.

The door opens and two men enter. The first man, wearing a tailored suit, strolls in, eyes locked on mine. His hands are on his hips near his leather belt.

"Tell me about the fire, Ms. Kingston."

The second man in a typical black police uniform closes the door behind him, and, without even looking my way, he adds, "And the admission of murder you told the other officer."

The woman continues to work on my hands near my knuckles, now taking samples with a moist cotton swab. I stare at the swollen scratches clustered near the tips of my fingers. "That place had to come down. It had to be destroyed. I had to be the one to do it."

"Is the murder you claim to have committed related to the fire?" I don't look up to see who had asked, but it isn't important. All my answers would convict me, which they should. A person like me didn't deserve anything less.

"Yes."

Through my periphery, I watch the uniformed officer pulled his notepad and pencil from his breast pocket. "Were you trying to cover up the murder with the fire?"

"I wanted to stop the screams." I finally look up into the men's narrow eyes, and they stare back, scrutinizing me like some newly discovered creature. "I thought watching that place burn to the ground would help, but ... I still hear them."

I don't know what to make of the silence in the room. The well-dressed man pulls a chair from the table and took a seat. "If we search the house will we find a body?"

My eyes dart back and forth from the woman, to the officer, to the man sitting before me, and back again.

I nod.

"Whose body will we find?"

The image of a female corpse enters my head, followed by the echoes of her screams. I squeeze my eyes closed, physically trying to shut out the troubling image and sounds. When I open my eyes I confront the curious stares. I look down into my lap, where I place my hands, intentionally avoiding eye contact.

The woman gathers the contents she had collected and places labels on them. Instinctively, I rub and examine the surface of my fidgeting hands.

"Ms. Kingston, can you tell us anything about the victim?"

"Don't know." The words barely escape me in a hushed breath.

The man lets out a longwinded sigh and sits back in his chair, visibly displeased. "What can you tell us?"

"I can tell you about the first ... victim."

I glance up just in time to see the men give each other a look, shifting uncomfortably in their place. Even the woman exudes discomfort as she pause and stares. The inquisitive look in their eyes prepares me for what I know would be a long night.

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