The Discrepancy

Silas stood up and walked around the table. He loomed over her, invading her space, trying to crack the shell.

"You're a violinist," he said. "First chair at the Stuyvesant Orchestra. Juilliard hopeful."

"I was," Mei corrected. "I suppose that is over now."

"Let me see your hands."

Mei hesitated. It was the first break in her armor. A micro-second of a pause.

"My hands are handcuffed, Detective."

"The right one. The one that swung the hammer."

Slowly, Mei unclenched her right hand and laid it flat on the table.

It was trembling.

It wasn't the shake of fear. It was a rhythmic, spasms tremor. The fingers twitched involuntarily.

Silas smiled, but there was no humor in it. He reached down and traced the tendon along her wrist. She flinched.

"Repetitive Strain Injury," Silas diagnosed. "Carpal tunnel? Tendonitis? You've been practicing too hard, Mei. That’s a career-ending tremor right there."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"You can't even hold a pencil without wincing. I saw you rubbing your wrist when you thought I wasn't looking. There is no way—*no way*—you generated enough force to crush a human skull with that hand. And you certainly didn't drag two hundred pounds of dead meat across an apartment."

Mei went still. The tremor in her hand intensified, vibrating against the steel table.

"He hurt her, didn't he?" Silas whispered. "Your mother. He came home, he went for her, and she snapped. She grabbed the hammer. She did the heavy lifting. And you... you're just the cleanup crew."

He slammed his hand on the table. "Don't lie to me, Mei! You're covering for her!"