They took her clothes first. It was procedure, someone explained, in the voice people use when they've already decided you won't argue, and she watched each piece go into a labeled bag the way she'd watch a client walk into a room she hadn't prepped: politely, already composing the correction.
Someone had given her a ThetaChain hoodie and a pair of gray synthetic pants that felt vaguely institutional, as though humiliation came with its own fabric blend. The air-conditioning found every place they didn't fit. Her hair was still damp where someone had wiped Pryce's blood from her face, and she'd flipped her part in an attempt to cover the bruise at her temple. It hadn't worked.
She had built a career on the idea that what you wear is a statement you control. Her statement was in an evidence bag now, and the detective across the table seemed to understand that better than she would have liked.
He asked when she had last seen Pryce alive. She told him. Everything else, she kept. It was, everyone would agree later, a very clean statement.