The prompt line is: You're in an interrogation room. A man walks in and throws a bunch of photographs on the table in front of you. The photos are old and were taken at different points in history. You're in each one. He demands to know who you are.
I used it more as a concept rather than a direct quote, and this is in an upcoming tale, LOCH'D HEARTS. Happy reading!
Connor wanted to scream and rail at the idiots in the Chimney Rock Police Department. He sat in their grungy, dark, uncomfortable interrogation room with nothing but a mirror, a table, and two chairs. He hadn’t been arrested, but he’d been brought in for questioning over Dahlia’s disappearance.
Because we’d been seen together. Of course, they’d been seen together. They’d become lovers. And who’s the first suspect when it comes to someone’s disappearance? Right, the lover or spouse was the first person of interest.
But Connor didn’t know where Dahlia was any more than the cops seemed to, and questioning him meant they definitely weren’t looking in the right direction. He gritted his teeth and ignored the itching between his shoulder blades. He’d sent a message to Captain Shandor when he was taken in for questioning and he hoped the rest of the Cloudburst Hot Shots crew were coming for him.
He bit back a snarl of frustration when the door to the interrogation room opened and a new man stepped in. This guy smelled like government secrets and surveillance, and he kept his surprise off his face. This isn’t a man ye can trust, laddie.
“Mr. MacLachlan, my name is Agent Presley Ingalls with the Department of Homeland Security.” He held some papers in his hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I have just a few questions.”
Connor nodded, but said nothing. Frustration slid across the hardened features of Agent Ingalls, but he wiped it clean when he threw the papers onto the table in front of Connor. They were photographs, taken with different qualities of cameras, at different points in history. He didn’t touch them, but he spied a fire brigade during World War One, and another from World War Two. He took a deep breath and raised his gaze to Ingalls’ face.
“You want to tell me why you’re in all these pictures?”
Connor tilted his head, his brows coming down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Ingalls. I thought I was here for questions about Dahlia Whitehall’s disappearance.” He’d done his best to erase his Scottish accent. Better to appear completely American than give DHS any suggestion he wasn’t a local.
“I’m sure the Chimney Rock police will get back to that soon enough. I want to know who you are, Mr. MacLachlan, and why the hell you’re in all these photos.” Ingalls stabbed the images on the table. “They’re from different times in history. This one here is from the Great Chicago Fire in 1871.” He slid that one aside. “And this one is from the Great Seattle Fire in 1889.” He slid those aside to show a third image. “This is the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906. And this is the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, New York City, in 1911.” He raised his gaze to Connor’s. “You’re in all of them. Care to explain that?”
Connor finally dropped his gaze to the photos, both irritated and amused. Someone had managed to catch images of him working those fires and disasters. He’d been a first responder, as they now called them, for too many years to count. But DHS didn’t need to know that, nor did they need to screw around with this foolishness now.
“Yeah, that does look like me, I’ll grant you. But it isn’t. Have you checked my family history? Lots of firefighters and EMTs in my heritage.” He shrugged and raised his gaze again. “But I don’t see how this helps Dahlia, and I sure as hell would rather you use your time looking for her. So if you’re just going to come in here with images of my family’s efforts to save the world, I think we’re done here.”
Agent Ingalls’ expression hardened and he took a breath to start in the photos when the door opened and Chief Eckhardt stuck his head in. “Ingalls.”
“What is it, Chief? I’m in the middle of an interrogation here.” Ingalls never looked away from Connor.
“He’s free to go. He’s got an alibi for the timing of Ms. Whitehall’s disappearance.”
“Sonuvaprick! No, he’s not free to go. He’s a suspect—”
“In what? All you did was come in here and show me some family photos.” Connor rose to his feet and politely scooted in the chair under the table. “Thank you for the history lesson. I’d forgotten about it.” He tilted his head with a mild smile. “Mind if I take them with me? I’m sure my cousins would love to see them.”
Ingalls gathered up the photos with a scowl. “They’re evidence. This isn’t over, MacLachlan.”
Connor rolled his eyes as he pushed past the DHS agent. Oh, he was right this wasn’t over. He’d just have to figure out away to either confiscate or destroy all the evidence of his longevity. It wouldn’t do to have the DHS discover a Boobrie in their midst.
That's it for me this month. Check out the other authors who wrote something to the prompt.