The following morning, I met Liam at the FBI building.

"Justin Walden was seen around Mrs. Clark's neighborhood yesterday," he told me. "We have to go get him from school for questioning. He's currently our prime suspect."

I agreed, even though I was feeling a little sorry for the kid. "We also need to notify his parents. He's still a minor, after all."

He nodded. "We can ask one of our guys to talk to them. Now we need to pick him up from school."

We informed our communication liaisons of the current situation so they would speak with the parents, and then Liam and I drove to Justin's high school. We knew that the two of us were more than enough to handle him.

The second we walked into the school, everybody started eying us warily, and I remembered just how much I hated high school.

We went to the principal's office, showed him our badges, and asked to talk with Justin. He informed us that Justin was playing baseball on the school's field and led us there. We found Justin sitting alone on a bench, and—fortunately for us—he was wearing the same blue baseball jacket from yesterday.

We started walking toward him; however, when he noticed that we were approaching him, he panicked and stood up at once, and then he started running. Liam and I wasted no time and started chasing after him.

After a short time of playing cat and mouse, I made it closer to him before I jumped and tackled him to the floor with his hands behind his back.

"Justin Walden, you have the right to remain silent," I said through heavy breaths as I slapped my handcuffs on him. Then I helped him up to his feet and continued reading him the Miranda rights. I could see Liam smirking from afar as I escorted the kid back to the car.

That was indeed a lot for my first case...

***

We took Justin to the FBI building and put him in one of the interrogation rooms.

Watching from the observation room, I noticed that the kid was shaking, sweating, and was only a shade darker than Casper. I figured out that if we waited any longer; he was probably going to have a panic attack.

"Go in," Liam told me. "Try to calm him down a little. His parents just arrived in case he needs them present."

"Aren't you coming in with me?" I raised my eyebrows in question.

"Well, if we both go in, we would have to play good cop, bad cop. And I really think that's the last thing this kid needs right now," he replied with a shrug. "Besides, it will be your first real interrogation. I think you should do it solo." He looked at me with a slight smirk.

I gave him a little smile before I straightened my expression and took a deep breath before opening the door to the interrogation room.

Justin jumped the second I walked inside, and he looked startled. I closed the door behind me, and the sound echoed through the room. His worried eyes followed me until I sat on the chair opposite him.

"I did nothing wrong," he began, fidgeting a little in his seat.

"Well, if that's true, why did you run from us and resist arrest?"

He didn't answer me and just swallowed hard.

"Justin, do you understand your rights?" I asked, keeping my eyes on him. "You can refuse to be questioned without a lawyer present. Also, as a minor, you can have your parents with you during the interview."

"No." The boy shook his head almost immediately. "I don't want them here."

"Okay." I nodded. "Let's start with something easy. What were you doing in the Manhattan Valley neighborhood yesterday?"

His eyes widened, and he turned even paler. "I—I was visiting a friend." His hand rose to touch his face—a sign that he was lying.

"Was that friend Allison Clark, by any chance?" I gave him a challenging look, making sure he knew his lies were pointless.

I could see that he was panicking, and the tremors in his hands increased. He clutched them tightly.

I stood up and walked to a corner table that had a few items on top of it. I poured a glass of water and handed it to Justin. "Here, drink this."

He took it from me and was having a hard time trying not to spill it all over him.

I waited until he started looking a little calmer, then I tried again. "Justin, I know that you're aware of the relationship your father had with Mrs. Clark." I pushed his buttons even more. "Some neighbors saw a teenage boy with a blue jacket and a baseball kit on his shoulder hanging around the neighborhood. I believe that matches your description."

He said nothing and continued to rub his hands while avoiding eye contact with me.

I sighed. "Listen, there's no law against hanging around in neighborhoods. Just tell me why you were there."

He looked at me for a second before running his shaky hands through his hair. He swallowed hard, then his lips slowly parted, and he finally spoke. "I—I went to talk to her."

I didn't comment as I waited for him to continue.

"I read her messages to my father. I ignored it at first, so Mom wouldn't know. But then my parents started to fight, and I knew it was because of that woman, so I—I went to ask her to leave my father."

"You know that she was murdered, right?" I waited for a reaction or for him to say something, but he didn't, so I continued. "She was hit on her head with something hard, like a baseball bat. And forensics found some blue fabrics under her nails."

He looked at me in fear, and his lips trembled. And I watched as his hands traveled to his blue jacket, adjusting it as if it chafed him all of a sudden.

I didn't stop. "The forensic team is currently running a luminol blood test on your baseball bats as we speak to see if any of them have blood remains. And we will examine your jacket later for a fabric match."

I was still trying to push his limits, but I might have already hit his breaking point.

A loud sob escaped his mouth. "I didn't mean it," he whispered so quietly I could barely hear him.

I kept my eyes fixed on him but said nothing, knowing for sure that he would continue.

"When I went there, I begged her to walk away from my father. She held me by my collar and mocked me, saying that I was just a kid who understood nothing. Then she insulted my mother; she said that my father hated her and didn't want her anymore." Hatred was obvious in his words as he spat them. "I became so angry that I didn't know what I was doing until I had already hit her with my baseball bat. She collapsed to the floor, and she looked like she was already gone, but I didn't stop. It was like I had lost all control over myself. I kept hitting and hitting until I was no longer able to."

Tears started dripping from his eyes like showers. I kept watching him without saying anything.

"I felt relieved for a couple of minutes. But after that, I returned to reality, and I couldn't believe what I had done, so I ran. I didn't even have the guts to throw the baseball bat away," he admitted. "I had no intention of doing something like that; I didn't want to hurt her. All I wanted was to get her away from my father. I never wanted to kill her. Never, I swear."

He completely broke down in tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

At this moment, I should have been happy that I got a full confession out of him, and that I just closed my first case, but I wasn't. I kept watching him, all guilty and full of regret, as he kept apologizing, over and over again.

People said that a guilty conscience needed no accuser. Once you felt guilty about something, it would keep haunting you forever. It would shackle you; it would suffocate and smother you until you confess or make things right.

And that was why I always believed that a clear conscience was the most powerful punishment a guilty person could ever have.