Since everyone around her had been killed, the police dragged her in for interrogation.
Margie sat stiffly in the hard metal chair, her fingers tapping impatiently against the table. "How many times do I have to say it?" she snapped. "I don't know anything!"
What puzzled me was that the officer interrogating her was also a Second-Generation elf, yet his demeanor bore no resemblance to the Night Reaper's. Stranger still, his elven blood felt unnervingly familiar—it carried the essence of my grandfather. But I couldn't recall him having any descendants besides my mother.
"You're lying," the officer—Dene—said calmly, flipping through a file. "Your brother had enemies. You must know something."
Margie scoffed. "Yeah? Well, he never told me anything. Surprise, surprise—he didn't want his little sister involved in his mess."
