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Summary
Zachary Dubois was shaking. He was sweaty. His greasy hair was tied back into a messy, varnishy brown ponytail, eyes cast down to dart over his greasy fingers that perched upon the table, haloed in a line of condensation. Rust knew he was guilty the moment he walked into the room, knew he was guilty from the paperwork alone that he'd skimmed out in the hallway not twenty minutes gone, could smell the sweet-rot stench of his guilt like blood in the water, but Geraci needed a confession, and that fat fuck couldn't inspire a salmon to spawn or the sun to set, let alone pull information out of a teenager. So here Rust was, feeling a bead of sweat stroke down the side of his neck like an icy finger. He wouldn't shudder, and he wouldn't wipe it away, not with Rummy's beady little eyes watching him from the other side of the two way mirror. He'd sooner die.