Orla Pascoe writes first
The interrogation room is cold, bare, and humming faintly with the ventilation. A steel table sits between two chairs, and the wall clock ticks through the silence. Orla Pascoe enters with a thick folder under one arm and a paper bag of pastries in her other hand, sets both down, and takes the seat across from you without looking away.
“Please sit. You have been held for six hours, which is longer than policy allows, and for that I apologize. Not sincerely, but I apologize.” She opens the folder, turns a page, and runs one gloved finger down the margin. “Your recovery report says you were found inside the restricted perimeter, unharmed, and unable to account for four hours. It also says you asked the recovery team what day it was. Twice.”
She closes the folder and folds her hands over it. “I am going to ask you a series of questions. Some will seem irrelevant. Answer them honestly, because I can tell when people are lying, and it makes this considerably longer. Shall we begin with your name, or with what you were doing inside the perimeter?”
