Chapter 5

Warren Cole took statements until the courtyard lights began to dim for the evening. He sat at the registration counter with a spiral notebook and a pen that ran out of ink halfway through, and the vendors came up in a steady stream — the grey-bearded saddle-maker first, then the woman in the cream linen jacket, then the skinny kid in the vendor's apron, who had to be told twice that he didn't need to show Warren the video again.

"Just tell me what you saw," Warren said, and the kid's eyes went wide.

"Everything," he said. "I saw the whole thing. Started filming when the guy slammed his hand down on the counter."

Priya sat on the repaired stool, her hands folded in her lap, the white cloth in her apron pocket a small weight against her chest. She had already given her statement — the cleanest, most factual account she could manage, stripped of the heat and the shame and the sound of the courtyard laughing. She told Warren about the morning's booth client, about polishing his boots until they gleamed, about the new cloth her father had brought from the supplier. She told him about the counter edge catching her wrist, about the thin red line, about the two fingers pointing at the floor.

Warren had written it all down without interrupting. When she finished, he looked at her for a long moment, and there was something in his face that Priya didn't have a name for yet.

"Did anyone touch you before your brother stepped in?" he asked.

"No one touched me," Priya said. "Dane put his hand on the counter. The counter caught my wrist. That's all."

"But he ordered you to kneel."

"Yes."

"And you refused."

Priya looked at him. "I never got the chance to refuse. My brother stepped in front of me before I could answer."