“I think we can get a confession.” I’m looking through the two-way glass observation window into the interrogation room. Smirking, she keeps her hands folded on the table. Like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Like she wasn’t arrested on multiple homicide charges. “She can sweat it out in there, then we’ll go through it again.”

“Let me take a crack at her,” the rookie says, rolling up his sleeves. Bad cop.

Moseying in, he plays at menace, practically winking through the mirror. Then he goes pale, mumbles an excuse, and backs out.

“She doesn’t have a reflection!”