I had planned on handing over the knife to Marius and finding some measure of relief, no matter how small. The New York Police Department had other things in mind. Childhood flashbacks had flooded my mind when I’d stepped into the building, taking me back to another time and place. Even though I’d been questioned about the death of my foster father in a temporary home—until I could be relocated—for some strange reason police stations reminded me of Ray. Maybe it was the uniforms, or because I knew when I stepped into their inner sanctum I had to live by their rules. Either way, I wasn’t pleased when the medical unit had looked me over, deemed me safe to transfer to the station, and I had been brought in to answer questions. By the time I’d finished, it was past six in the morning. The popo had taken me to the station, grilled me over the coals despite the fact I told them the same story and had refused to relent with their questioning until I’d fallen asleep at their cheap-ass interrogation table.
