Eliza placed the photographs in front of him, her voice level and cold. "I want you to explain these hematomas." She pointed at the image where the deep purple bruise spread in a crescent shape.
Miller glanced down and exhaled softly, the sound weary, like someone accustomed to dodging truth. "You do not know the pressure this city is under," he replied, voice drained. "I wrote what they told me to write."
The casualness of it struck Eliza silent for a beat, her jaw clenched. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing a pallid glow across Miller's face. He looked older than his file photo: eyes ringed with sleepless fear, shoulders curled inward as if expecting a blow. Eliza felt something cold settle inside her. This wasn't incompetence; it was surrender carved into habit.
She tapped the photograph once more, and Miller flinched like she had struck him. She slammed the folder onto the desk, the sharp crack making Miller recoil.
"You wrote what you were ordered to write," she said, each word dropping with the weight of stone, "and Brooks died because he was slammed into a wall."
His eyes twitched just enough to reveal the tearing of the last layer of denial he had been hiding behind. He looked toward the frosted glass window, as if afraid it might be listening. When he spoke again, his voice shrank: "You do not understand. Hale will not let anyone touch this case. I have a family."
Eliza pushed down her anger, though she did not soften. "You have a family," she said slowly. "Brooks had one, too."
The words pierced him exactly where he was weakest. Miller lowered his head, tapping the desk with trembling fingers. The silence between them was not resistance; it was exhaustion, shame, and a truth he could no longer outrun. When he finally exhaled, it sounded like defeat. He did not speak again.
Eliza gathered her documents and stepped out, the weight in her chest no lighter than when she had arrived. The hallway felt colder as she walked through, her shoes echoing off the grimy tiles with a clipped, determined rhythm.
Outside, the afternoon sky hung low and colorless, as if Holston itself preferred to stay dim. She immediately called Maya.