I signed my name on the line.

Detective Harris closed the folder, his thumb resting on the metal tab of the state’s witness list.

He did not say anything for several seconds, allowing the ink of my signature to dry under the fluorescent lights of the courthouse corridor.

We began walking toward the high arched windows at the far end of the hall.

The morning light fell through the tall panes of glass in pale, dusty squares, showing the scuff marks on the terrazzo floor.

“We picked Caleb up at five this morning,” Detective Harris said, his voice dropping to a low murmur as a clerk passed us with a cart of files.