The detective leaned forward, his gaze steady as he interrogated her. Sandra Dass sat opposite him in her orange jumpsuit, her hands cuffed to the table.
Her hair was a disheveled mess.
Her face, pale as a ghost, seemed almost unrecognizable from the woman she once was.
After Sandra killed two fellow patients and nearly strangled a nurse with a piece of torn fabric, the psychiatric facility deemed her too dangerous to manage. The court agreed, transferring her to a maximum-security prison where even hardened criminals gave her a wide berth.
Sandra smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. "Are you scared, Detective?"
He ignored her taunt. "You still haven't answered our questions about the mass murder of your ten friends, Miss Dass. Are you ready to cooperate today?"
She shrugged nonchalantly, her movements slow, calculated. For three months, they'd gone through this same dance, and she had offered them nothing.
The detective slid a photograph across the table. It showed a young girl, her wide eyes filled with innocence. "We believe she might be your daughter."
Sandra's eyes flickered with recognition, her demeanor shifting as she reached for the photo.
But before her fingers could touch it, he pinned it down with his pen. "Talk to us."
Her expression darkened, and she leaned back, a sneer curling her lips. In a heartbeat, she spat in his face.
"All men are the same," she hissed.
The room fell silent.
Then, almost as if bored, she shrugged. "Fine," she said coolly, her tone dripping with malice. "
I'll tell you everything."