The Story Spirals

The Translator of Silence Plastic chairs are the worst gossips. I shifted in the interrogation room, trying to ignore the cheap polypropylene screaming against my spine. It was vibrating with the memories of the last three dozen people who had sat here: the damp terror of a suspect, the bored fatigue of a lawyer, the nervous tapping of a witness. It was a cacophony of ass-sweat and adrenaline, a radio stuck between stations at full volume. I adjusted my leather gloves. They were lined with lead-woven fabric, custom-made. Without them, I couldn't open a doorknob without learning about the homeowner’s marital infidelity. "Mr. Vane," Agent Miller said. He stood on the other side of the metal table, looking like every fed I’d ever met: sharp suit, dead eyes, smelling of stale coffee and ambition. "We appreciate you coming on such short notice." "Save the pleasantries, Miller. The meter is running," I said, my voice raspy. I hadn't spoken to a human bei...