"So what you're telling me is that you have no idea how Ian fell?"<br/><br/>The lush black office chair made a threatening<span style="font-style: italic">pop</span>as Detective Barker leaned back and flipped through papers in a bland manila folder. It made Desmond's fists clench on the table, the cold metal handcuffs scraping against the wood. "I<span style="font-style: italic">don't</span>," Des reiterated for the fifth or sixth time that he had been asked that question. He could understand their suspicion. He was sure that the mall's rooftop camera hadn't caught anything but an entirely inconvenient shot of what had actually happened. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful for that or not. If it had captured the entire thing, he wasn't sure what they would even make of it. He wasn't sure what to make of it, himself. "...how is he?"<br/><br/>Det. Barker raised his head just slightly, his nose still buried in Desmond's file and looking at him from overtop his glasses. "Critical. He might never walk again," he pointed out, and Des felt his words get caught in his throat. "If he even survives. I suppose that's what happens when you take a fall from a four story building, isn't it Desmond?"<br/><br/>Des slammed his fists on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "I didn't fucking<span style="font-style: italic">do</span>anything!" he yelled, holding his chained wrists in front of the detective's face. "And what the hell is this? Is this even<span style="font-style: italic">legal</span>?"<br/><br/>The door flew open, and Desmond swore loudly as he braced himself for being slammed face-first onto the table. Impact never came though, only a loud, demanding voice. "And exactly why is my client in handcuffs? He was<span style="font-style: italic">not</span>arrested, and has absolutely  no grounds to be."<br/><br/>The tension in the air was tangible, shattering only at the sound of Desmond being relieved of his bindings. He disconnected at that point, letting himself be dragged out of the interrogation room and down the bland, unwelcoming hallway of Miami's police station. "God<span style="font-style: italic">damn</span>it, Des," Jeff hissed, dragging him by the arm out the glass double-doors and leading him to the lawyer's black SUV. When they were at the door, Jeff spun his dazed client around and looked him dead in the eye. "What happened?"<br/><br/>If Jeff had been just some lawyer, he would've been punched in the throat by now. "I don't<span style="font-style: italic">know</span>," Des stressed, dragging a shaking hand through his shaggy brown hair. "Look, I'm just going to walk home, alright? I'll be fine, there's probably some squad car getting ready to make sure I get home." Desmond didn't wait for an answer, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking long strides to get out of the parking lot as fast as possible.<br/><br/>The police would never believe him. Jeff would never believe him. He wasn't even sure his own family would believe him. How was he supposed to convince them that he never pushed Ian from the rooftop when the reality was inconceivable? No one would believe that Ian had practically flown backwards, seeming to stumble over his own two feet the entire five feet separating him from the edge of the building? How was anyone supposed to believe that when he wasn't even entirely sure he believed it himself?