“His date of birth?” the officer continued, voice low but firm. Sandra answered automatically, the numbers spilling from her lips with mechanical certainty. Each question felt eerily formal, as if they were verifying the identity of someone she no longer fully recognized. Her chest tightened with each passing second.
“Previous addresses?” the next officer asked, flipping through a small notebook. Sandra listed the places they’d lived—apartments, rentals, the house they now owned. She watched the officers exchange brief glances. She wondered what each detail meant and what they were checking against. Fear pooled cold and heavy in her stomach.