Fisher Hawkins
The door to the interrogation room opened and the woman stepped in, her heeled shoes clicking across the floor the only sound she made. A small pile of papers were in one hand and as she sat in the chair opposite Fisher, she spread them out, blue lacquered nails tapping them as she studied something in the mannila file she held in the opposite hand.
"Mr. Hawkins. How you holding up? Do you need anything? Water…? Something to eat?"
Taking only a short peek at the detective who entered, Fisher returned his gaze to the ground quite quickly. He was determined not to say a thing and he knew that his nervousness would get the better of him if he let it. At her offer, he suddenly felt all of the dryness in his throat, the taste of ash that had lingered with his encounter. Something about his better judgement kept him from asking.
"No.. I'm fine, thank you." He murmured, staring intently at the wall to the side as if it had something to offer.
She smiled, and there was a genuine nature to it, but something in her eyes remained cold - a void of focused determination, as she laid the folder beside the papers, "Not your first time in a station is it, Mr. Fisher?"
The paperwork was indication enough that it was a rhetorical question, as she continued, she shifted one of the pages forward for him to see, "Seven years ago… There was a similar incident that you were involved in, am I correct? I'd like you to tell me about it. What happened to your foster family."
Swallowing, Fisher stared at the papers. He'd known this was coming. He'd known this would be brought to him again, another smack in the face. "I already gave you my statement back then," He said, without any confidence. "Why do I need to tell you again?"
"Just… call it a curiosity." She steepled her hands in front of her, the smile returned, "I find it strange that you seem to wind up in these situations so frequently, and I suppose I'm just trying to understand it. Don't worry, Fisher. You aren't in any trouble. But a lot of people have died, and I think you understand that it's in your best interest that we get as many answers as possible. I would hate for the wrong people to get stuck with a crime of this magnitude."
He didn't know what to say, and he sure as hell didn't know how to stay quiet. Not like he ever had. First she said he wasn't in trouble, but then she was going on about sticking the blame on someone else. He figured it couldn't hurt to tell her what she already knew.
"It was my foster brother," Fisher said softly. "Back then. The mother, the one who took care of us, her son bullied us and I… I guess he had enough."
A brow lifted, and something sparked through the woman's eyes as she pulled a pen from the messy brown bun atop of her head, scribbling a note in the folder, "I see… And you think that it's him now, Fisher? You think this is what… finishing the job?"
Lips pursed, Fisher glanced around the room, as if he were about to spill a secret. Well, too late now. He might as well tell them. Delilah didn't need to get her hands on him first and he wished the police damn good luck.
With a sigh, Fisher gave a solemn nod.
There was a saying… something about a person appearing like a cat that swallowed a canary, and if ever it was appropriate, then, it seemed, was the opportune time. The woman's expression shifted and as she sank back, her smile brightened, and she nodded along with Fisher.
"...Thank you, Mr. Hawkins. I think for now you're free to go, but we'll have some follow up questions, so it's for the best you don't leave town."
Fish blinked. He was surprised that was it. He'd probably.. Said too much. But what did it matter? They wouldn't be able to catch him. He kept on telling himself that Delilah didn't need this. She didn't't have to spiral down. She didn't have to lose anything. He knew, however… that he had work to do. He had to find Solomon before he did this again, because Fisher was entirely sure.. He was the only one who could stop him.