Cold air bit at Elara's exposed arms. Inside Adrian's sterile conference room, the chill felt like a deliberate weapon, designed to strip away any remaining warmth or comfort.
Hands trembled, gripping the polished armrests of her chair. Across the expansive table, Adrian watched her with an unnervingly calm gaze. His expression was a carefully constructed mask.
"Start from the beginning, Elara," he commanded, his voice devoid of inflection. "Everything you remember from yesterday. Every face, every sound, every strange occurrence in the past few weeks."
Swallowing hard, Elara tried to focus. The bakery’s charred remains flashed behind her eyelids. The acrid smell of smoke still clung to her clothes, her hair, her very skin.
"I already told the police," she began, her voice hoarse. "There was a man outside... a black hoodie... He just stood there, watching."
Adrian's gaze sharpened, cutting through her explanation. "And before that? Any threats? Any disgruntled customers? Anyone who might have a reason to target your family?"
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. The subtle shift in his posture felt like an advance, a tightening of the invisible net around her.
Remembering her childhood, Elara shook her head. "No, not that I know of. My family… we just run a bakery. We don't have enemies."
"Everyone has enemies, Elara," Adrian stated, his tone flat. "Sometimes they're hidden. Sometimes they're born of envy, or a past slight you've forgotten."
He pressed further, his questions relentless. They drilled into her, probing every memory, every interaction she'd had, however insignificant.
Her head began to ache, a dull throb behind her eyes. Each query felt less like an investigation and more like an accusation. Was he suggesting she was somehow involved?
"Did you notice any unusual financial activity?" he demanded. "Any new suppliers? Any strange deliveries?"
"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Nothing. Everything was normal."
Adrian sighed, a slow, deliberate exhalation that seemed to convey his profound disappointment. His fingers drummed a quiet rhythm on the table, each tap a hammer blow to her fraying nerves.
"Think harder, Elara," he urged, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "This isn't just about a bakery. This is about an attack. A deliberate, targeted act."
His words echoed in the silence of the room, amplifying her sense of dread. She felt like a specimen under a microscope, every fiber of her being scrutinized.
"I'm trying!" she cried, her voice cracking. Her throat felt tight, constricted. The image of the flames, the fear in her mother's eyes, overwhelmed her.
A sudden wave of nausea washed over her. Her vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes. She squeezed them shut, trying to regain control.