“We need to speak with you.”

Patricia stepped forward. “Detective, I’m the office manager. Anything involving this company should go through me.”

Detective Morales looked at her. “Then you can tell your staff not to leave the building.”

Patricia’s confidence cracked. “Are we suspects?”

“You are witnesses,” the detective said. “For now.”

The words sank through the room like cold water.

Hannah followed Detective Morales into the conference room. Through the glass walls, she could see everyone pretending not to watch. Lupita sat at her desk with her hands folded, head bowed, the perfect picture of a wounded coworker whose kindness had been rejected.

Detective Morales closed the door.

“Ms. Reed,” she said, “we were told you regularly went down the emergency stairs and left items in the median.”

Hannah nodded. “Food. For a stray cat.”

“What kind of food?”

“Tamales.”

“Where did you get them?”

“My coworker Lupita brought them to me.”

“Every day?”

“Almost every day for a month.”

Detective Morales studied her. “Did you eat any?”

Hannah hesitated.

“That matters,” the detective said.

“The first day, I tried a bite,” Hannah said. “Maybe two. After that, no.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like sweet tamales. And they felt too heavy for breakfast.”

“Did you become ill after eating them?”

Hannah thought back. “A little dizzy that morning, maybe. I thought it was lack of sleep.”

The detective wrote that down.

Hannah’s pulse quickened. “What did you find outside?”

Detective Morales did not answer directly. “Did the cat become sick?”

Hannah’s heart dropped.

“I don’t know. He stopped showing up today.”

The detective looked at the younger officer, then back at Hannah. “The gardener uncovered several small animal remains beneath the median.”

Hannah pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Cats?” she whispered.

“At least three,” Detective Morales said. “Possibly more. Animal control is assisting. We also recovered food remnants wrapped in napkins, plastic bags, and office paper.”

The room tilted slightly.

Hannah gripped the edge of the conference table.

Pancho.

Maybe the others too.

All those mornings, she had thought she was saving him.

“What was in the food?” she asked.

“We are testing it.”

But the detective’s face said enough.

Hannah sat down slowly.

Detective Morales remained standing. “I need you to be very clear. Did you prepare any of the food?”

“No.”

“Did you add anything to it?”

“No.”

“Did you knowingly feed poisoned food to animals?”

Hannah looked up in horror. “No. God, no. I thought they were normal tamales. I thought Lupita was just being nice.”

“Why would she bring you food every day?”

“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “She said she liked me. That her mother made extra.”

“Were you close?”

“No. Friendly, but not close.”

“Any conflict?”

Hannah almost said no.

Then she remembered.

The promotion.

Three months earlier, Mercer & Dale had opened a senior accounts coordinator position. Hannah and Lupita both applied. Hannah had more experience, cleaner audit history, and stronger client reviews. Lupita had cried in the bathroom after Hannah got the offer. Later, she apologized for being emotional and brought Hannah the first tamales two weeks after the announcement.

Hannah closed her eyes.

“There was a promotion,” she said.

Detective Morales stopped writing. “Tell me.”

So Hannah did.

She told the detective about the job, the awkwardness, the first tamale, Patricia pressuring her to eat it, Lupita watching too closely from her desk. She told her about the emergency stairs, Pancho, the dead plants, and the way Lupita had looked at her when the police arrived.

When she finished, Detective Morales asked one final question.

“Ms. Reed, do you have any of the tamales left?”

Hannah thought of the office refrigerator.

That morning, Patricia had forced the issue before Hannah could slip downstairs. Lupita had brought two tamales. Hannah had taken them, smiled, and said she was going for coffee. But when Patricia mocked her, Hannah panicked and placed the bag in the refrigerator, planning to sneak it out later.

“Yes,” Hannah said. “In the break room fridge.”

Detective Morales opened the conference room door.

“Officer Lee,” she called. “Evidence bag.”

The office watched in absolute silence as police opened the refrigerator and removed Lupita’s plastic bag from the middle shelf. Lupita stood abruptly.

“That’s mine,” she said.

Detective Morales turned. “You made these?”

“My mother did.”

“We’ll need her name.”

Lupita’s lips parted. “Why?”

“Because these may be evidence.”

The softness vanished from Lupita’s face again, just for a second. Then it returned.

“My mother is sick,” she said. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Detective Morales walked toward her. “Then you’ll want to help us clear that up.”

Lupita sat down slowly.

By five o’clock, no one was allowed to leave without giving a statement. Patricia was furious, then frightened, then eager to explain that she had always sensed something “off” in the office culture. Several coworkers admitted they had seen Hannah carrying napkins down the stairs. One admitted seeing Lupita standing by the back window afterward, watching the median.

The gardener, Julian Ortega, told police that the soil near the jacaranda had smelled strange for days. He had found small bones first, then a collar, then a clump of gray fur.

Gray.

Hannah went to the bathroom and threw up.

That night, she did not sleep.

At home in her small apartment in Pasadena, she sat on the kitchen floor with her knees against her chest, replaying every morning. Pancho waiting beside the broken flowerpot. Pancho sniffing the food. Pancho slowly trusting her enough to eat while she stood nearby. Pancho disappearing.