Family Testimony

David sat in the cold interrogation room at the Yonkers precinct, the fluorescent light flickering overhead. At fifteen, he already carried the weight of trauma that would crush most adults. Across the table, Detective James Calloway and Detective Serena Vega eyed him critically, shuffling papers, murmuring to each other.

“You say you’ve been living in Yonkers, David?” Calloway began. “But the timeline of the deaths in Manhattan coincides with your alleged move. We need exact details.”

David, hoodie pulled low over his face, kept his voice steady. “I moved in with my grandmother, Marion Johnson, a month ago. I haven’t gone back to Manhattan. You can ask her.”

Calloway frowned. “We will. But even if she confirms it, it doesn’t absolve you. All the victims—Parker family, your cousins, your twin brother’s friends—they had ties to you.”

Before David could respond, the door opened. Marion Johnson, petite but commanding, entered the room. “I’m Marion Johnson,” she said firmly. “David has been living with me for a month. He hasn’t been to Manhattan once. Not even for a day.”

Vega raised an eyebrow. “How can you be certain? There’s no camera footage confirming it—”

Marion shook her head. “I don’t need cameras. I see him every day. He helps around the house, goes to the local stores, runs errands. Yonkers is all he knows. He hasn’t left my sight for long enough to travel to Manhattan.”

David said nothing, letting his grandmother speak. Inside, he felt a small surge of relief. Finally, someone who sees reason.

Calloway scribbled notes but looked unconvinced. “Even so… the victims all wronged him in some way. That’s suspicious. Hard to ignore the pattern.”

David leaned forward, voice calm but razor-sharp. “Do you understand what it feels like to survive death? To be beaten, stabbed, and left for dead by the people who should have protected you? Do you know what it’s like to wake up in a hospital, broken, alone, and realize the world doesn’t care?”

Vega’s eyes narrowed. “We’re just doing our jobs, David—”

David’s voice cut through sharply. “Your job is reminding me of trauma you will never comprehend. Every question, every accusation, drags me back to that casket, that river, that hospital bed. You ask, ‘Where were you?’ You ask, ‘Why did these people die?’ You expect answers from a fifteen-year-old boy who watched death touch everyone he trusted. You’re not investigating—you’re punishing me for surviving.”

Marion stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on David’s shoulder. “Enough. He survived by himself. He has lived quietly here. He hasn’t harmed anyone. You are looking at the wrong person.”

David’s voice softened slightly, though the edge remained. “Coincidence is what you call it. Every death, every whisper, every suspicion—you call it coincidence because the truth is unbearable. You don’t want to face that I survived, that I lived while others didn’t. You want a narrative. You want someone to blame.”

Vega’s tone hardened. “We just want clarity. The deaths seem connected—patterns are hard to ignore.”

“A pattern?” David repeated. “A pattern is what you see when you force meaning on chaos. You think surviving makes me guilty because it’s convenient. You remind me of every second I fought, of every betrayal, of every scream, expecting me to falter. But I survived. That is the fact. Survival is not a crime. Survival is a shield.”

Calloway leaned back, voice low. “You speak as if you’re lecturing us.”

David’s eyes narrowed. “I am lecturing you. About arrogance. About ignorance. About the mistake of confronting someone fifteen years old, who has lived through murder and betrayal, with questions meant to hurt, not uncover truth. Survivors’ guilt is not evidence. Trauma is not a confession. And surviving death is not a crime.”

Marion spoke again, voice firm. “Detectives, he is truthful. David moved here. He has not gone to Manhattan. Check every day, every errand. You will find nothing. And yet, here you sit, accusing a boy who has already endured more than you could imagine.”

David whispered internally, Finally, someone who understands. Then aloud, “Check everything if you must. Neighbors, stores, pharmacies—my life in Yonkers is transparent. You will see nothing linking me to Manhattan. Nothing linking me to guilt. But you will see what survival means. You will see that I am alive, and nothing else matters.”

Calloway exhaled slowly, lowering his pen. “You have a way with words, David. Too good, maybe.”

David leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on the buzzing light above. “Words are my armor. My survival is my shield. Every accusation, every reminder of trauma, every implication of guilt—they fail against what I’ve endured. Listen carefully, detectives: a boy who survives death is not a criminal. And your reminders will not turn me into one.”

Vega’s hand hovered over her notes. “We’ll verify your story. Your grandmother confirms it. You moved here.”

David nodded, voice calm but deliberate. “Yes. And she speaks the truth. Verify it. Confirm it. But do not mistake my survival, my silence, my composure for guilt. It is not. I am alive. That is fact. Everything else—your suspicions, your shadows—is meaningless.”

Marion squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Let them chase shadows. David hides nothing.”

David whispered internally, Let them search. Let them dig. They still don’t see me. By the time they understand, it will be too late for everyone else.