faded when he saw himself in one of them.
INTERROGATION ROOM B.
âCain Collins.â Detective Brown read from the folder containing Cainâs rap sheet. âGrand larceny, assault, possession, grand theft auto . . . the list goes on. At seventeen, youâve got a longer rap sheet than men twice your age. Your mother must be proud.â
Cain simply rolled his eyes and remained silent.
âWho was the other guy that was with you, the one who ran off?â
Cain shrugged.
âThe strong, silent type, huh? Funny, Iâd have taken you more for the pretty boy,â Brown said, taunting Cain.
Cainâs muscles tensed as if he wanted to spring, but he kept his cool.
âOh, you donât like people talking about your little beautymark?â Brown reached to touch Cainâs scar, and he jerked away.
âKeep your fucking hands off me!â Cain spit.
âShut up, lilâ nigga. You ainât calling the shots around here. I am.â Brown jumped to his feet. âNow, you keep shooting that smart mouth off, and Iâm gonna knock your teeth down your throat.â
Cain looked up at the detective. âIs this the part where Iâm supposed to get scared? You ainât âbout shit, toy cop!â
Brown grabbed Cain by the neck and yanked him out of the chair. âThereâs that big-ass mouth of yours again.â He gave Cain a good shake. Cain drew his fist back to strike, but before he could follow through, Brown had his gun drawn and pointed at his temple. âGo right ahead. Give me a reason to splatter you, sucka!â Cain wisely calmed down. âThatâs what I thought, muthafucka.â He shoved Cain back down in the chair and sat back down himself.
âWhat the fuck you want from me, man?â Cain asked with an attitude.
âI want you to die in the fucking gutter, but I know I ainât gonna get that, so Iâll settle for a name.â He slid a picture across the table to Cain.
Cain looked at the picture. âWho the fuck is that?â He faked ignorance. He didnât know the man in the pictureâs name, but he knew his face.
âThatâs the muthafucka you and your cronies put to sleep a few days ago,â Brown said.
Cain looked at the officer in disbelief. âNigga, you got me fucked up. I donât know nothing about no murder, and if I did, what the fuck makes you think Iâd tell you?â
âThe same reason they all tell me, son. You donât wanna grow old in prison. See, you think youâre hot shit because youâre running with that little scum-fuck Ashanti, but you ainât really âbout that life. I know a killer when I see one. Ashanti, that kid is a murderer, but not you. You sweet, youngster. I can smell the sugar coming all off you.â
âFuck outta here with that shit,â Cain said, trying to keep his anger in check.
âWhat, you mad? Like I give a fuck. If youâre really mad, get your black ass up outta that chair and do something,â Brown said, challenging him. Cain remained seated. âJust like I thought, pussy. Now, you can play that gangsta shit all you want, but I know your monkey ass. I see dozens of fuck-tards like you on a daily basis. Angry little piss-ants, born to less-than-shit-ass parents who were either too lazy or too dumb to use birth control, so it falls to good citizens like us to clean up their bullshit.â
âYou donât know shit about me,â Cain spat.
âOh, but I know enough. Youâre the son of a two-bit crack whore, whoâd rather suck dick for a blast than make sure you ate a decent meal at night.â Brown laughed mockingly.
The truth in Brownâs words cut Cain like a hot knife and sent him into a rage. Without even thinking about it, he was on his feet and leaping across the table. Brown was caught by surprise, so the first blow hit him square in the chin and knocked him out of the